


Winter Falls

by Natassia74



Series: The Winter Falls Collection [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Missing Scenes, alternative ending, set during and after episode 804
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natassia74/pseuds/Natassia74
Summary: Follows Jaime and Brienne's time in Winterfell through the tragedy of Kings Landing and beyond. A study of these two wonderful characters and their hopes, fears and motivations.Set during 804 and after, this is my attempt to make sense of the mess we were left with when the curtain fell on season 8.  While focused on the JB relationship, the story gives agency and insight into Cersei, and explores why Jaime loves her.Canon compliant until chapter seven, then it begins to diverge, becoming a fix-it at the end (because neither Jaime nor Cersei could possibly be that stupid).





	1. The Beginning - Jaime and Brienne

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been done many times already, but this is my take on Jamie and Brienne's canonical period as lovers, and the events that follow.
> 
> This is first fanfic since my days of Buffy fandom, so I am a bit rusty, and unfortunately lacking a beta. There will be typos. I apologise in advance.

**Brienne**

"Then you have to drink..."

“I told you, I –“

He silences her by pressing his mouth to hers.  She’s shocked, but delighted, by the feel of his lips on hers, the rough tickle of his beard against the soft skin of her face.

Brienne’s spent her life encased in armor, steel around her body and her heart.  Emotions are a liability, romance a dangerous dream wreathed in the reality of ridicule and disdain.  Three failed betrothals to her name, yet she’s never held a man’s hand out of affection, never known a gentle caress, never truly been kissed by a man she welcomed. 

Of course, she’s thought about it.  She thought about kissing Renly, a lot.  And then, eventually, Jaime, even more.  Most of her dreams involved something soft, gentle and tentative.  But this is nothing like that.  It’s bold and desperate and filled with longing, on her part as much as his.  It's as intoxicating as the wine. A bolt of something wicked – desire – shoots through her chest, her stomach, lower into her groin, making her legs feel weak.

The newness of the sensations is nearly overwhelming, and she fights a momentary desire to pull away.  To laugh, or cry, or flee from this new challenge. But Brienne has never been one to run.  She’s eager to be a partner in _this_ \- whatever _this_ is. 

So she presses her mouth harder to Jaime’s, tastes the sweat on his skin and the lingering drops of wine on his lips. 

 _He’s drunk._ She knows this.  _But so am I. And not just on wine.  On victory and life and the sheer insanity of the world._

Jaime’s teeth gently catch her lips, his tongue darting and exploring.  It’s clear he wants something, is asking permission, but she does not know for what.  She’s not even sure she’s doing things right, stumbling as she is between following Jaime’s lead, and imitating what she has seen couples do in their stolen moments. Her septa had praised innocence as a virtue, but in this moment it makes her feel useless and exposed.  Still, she finds reassurance in how Jaime’s cold, gold hand finds her lower back and holds her there, while his unmaimed left hand clutches desperately at her neck, caresses her cheek.

_He wants me. He can teach me._

And he does.

“Open your mouth” he whispers, his breath and voice against her lips. 

A devastating ripple of hot desire runs through her at the request.

“What…” She begins, but he captures her mouth again, answering her question by gently pushing his tongue into her mouth. 

It feels lewd, dangerous.  He’s invading her body, claiming her. It’s so much _more_ than the now chaste seeming kisses of only a moment ago.  _Now this is kissing_ , she thinks.  Again, she rises to this challenge, countering and parrying his thrusts with her own. It’s intensely intimate.  Strange, intoxicating, bewildering.  _Wonderful._

Jaime’s chest rumbles with something resembling a growl.

 _Hear me roar_ , she thinks.

Then, _I’m doing this to him._   

And then, suddenly, it’s both overwhelming and just too strange.  Brienne feels an urge to laugh, although whether with delight or in reaction to the newness, or just the effect of too much wine, she isn’t sure. She resists momentarily, not sure how Jaime would interpret it, but the mirth bubbles up, and she breaks the kiss awkwardly, giggling like a girl. 

 _Seven_ , she never giggles.  _Why now?_

Jaime pulls back and gives her one of those looks of his, where he tilts his head to the side. His eyes are clouded, unfocused, disturbed by what she hopes is lust, but also by confusion and a little hurt.

“Not the reaction I was expecting.  I’m probably not on my best game, but surely it’s not that…”

Brienne shakes her head and smiles, silencing him. “It’s not that.  It’s just that I’ve never kissed anyone before,…”

His eyes open a little wide, and then he laughs.  “Well, you’re doing bloody well, then”.

His tone is affectionate, although his words are a little slurred. 

She laughs again. “It’s a bit strange.  Kissing, I mean.  It’s not bad.  Actually, it’s kind of nice…just not quite what I had imagined.”

He laughs at that.  An exuberant laugh, unlike anything she’s ever heard from him before. Then he leans back toward her. 

“Done lots of imagining, did you?” His voice is husky, deeper than usual.

Brienne blushes.  _Too much imagining_ , she thinks, but she is hardly going to tell him that. 

“Once or twice.  When I was a foolish girl,” she says, although she’s sure the growing blush on her pale cheeks gives away her lie.

Jaime’s still smirk.  “Well then, I hope it the real thing has lived up to my lady’s long held _fantasies_.”

He emphasizes the last word, drawing it out, seemingly making some kind of promise.  Another bolt of desire shoots straight to her groin.

She leans into again. “So far, so good” she says, and touches her lips to his again. 

The kiss is slower this time, but no less invasive.  They explore each other deeply before drawing apart again, panting.

They’re still standing, awkwardly, in the middle of her room.  She’s nervous, which she supposes is only to be expected.  But he’s nervous too, and uncharacteristically quiet. It’s endearing, if somewhat absurd.  Neither of them are young. Both of them are experienced warriors, fearless in battle.  He is the sire of four children.  Yet here they are, lips touching, but bodies still some way apart, both wanting, but uncertain as to the next step, like maidens at a dance.

Jaime is staring at her with hooded eyes, his golden hand still resting lightly on her back and the other on her neck.  He seems to be waiting for her to make the next move, so Brienne tentatively reaches out and runs her fingers up his chest, curling them through the light dusting of now greying hair. He shudders at her touch.  She’s seen him naked before, and touched him too, including in some of his most intimate places, during those dark days on the road to Harenhal.  But that intimacy was borne of pain and fear, and those memories have no place here.

She runs her hands down his chest, exploring.  He has changed so much these last years.  The last time he was exposed to her he was sick and emaciated, his chest and stomach hollow.  He’s put back on some of that weight, although he’s still lean, with ropey muscles across his shoulders and arms.  His left shoulder is slightly better defined than his right, a testament to his determination to get some of his former glory back. He is covered in scars, even more than her.

 _And that’s only the physical ones_ , she thinks.

She traces her fingers back up and across his chest, his shoulders and arms, until her left hand touches the straps holding his golden hand to his stump.  Lingering over the leather, unsure, she raises her eyes to meet his. 

“May I?”, she asks softly, touching the straps. 

He swallows and nods. 

Carefully, Brienne undoes the straps and removes the false hand.  It’s both gaudy and terribly heavy, and she wonders how he can bear to wear it. A part of her hates it, this ostentatious show of wealth that burdens him and serves no apparent purpose.  But a part of her understands, too, that Jaime has another life, in Kings Landing, a life she cannot possibly understand, where disguises and artifice and the appearance of perfection are as much weapons as a sword is here at Winterfell.  Another life, too, with another woman, who will always hold a piece of his heart.  So, hate the hand as she does, she doesn’t let it drop, but carefully turns and places it carefully back on the desk behind her.

When she turns back, Jaime is staring at her with eyes dark with desire.

He has self-consciously tucked his stump behind his back, likely a habit born of unwarranted shame.  She reaches behind him to take his right wrist, guiding it back between them.  She meets his eyes as she clutches his stump between her hands.   

She doesn’t quite know how to say what she wants to say, how to express the profound gratitude that she feels. _It’s because of your loss that I am able to share this with you_. She hopes he understands. 

He’s still wearing he red glove, and she removes that too.

“It’s not very sightly”, he warns.  And he’s right, although perhaps not for the reasons he thinks.  True, the skin is puckered and scared where his hand once was, but she had expected that. It’s the bruising and torn flesh where its replacement was strapped that shocks her.

“For gods’ sake, Jaime,” she says in a strangled whisper.

He shrugs.  “Turns out it’s a pretty useful weapon, who’d have thought.”   Then he tries, gently, to pull his right arm away from her. “Brienne, can we not do this now?  I think we both have other priorities…”

She nods, but doesn't let go, and instead draws the stump to her lips and kisses it.  At that, Jaime seems to almost melt before her.  She knows that, whatever happens later, after, she won’t regret giving him this, tonight.  

“Right”, Jaime says then, apparently trying to get some control back over the situation.  “Um…”  But his voice fades away. He’s speechless, which must be a first.

Leaving his right hand in her grasp, Jaime cautiously lowers his left hand from her neck, his fingers tracing a line down her chest, and around until they cup one of her small breasts.  His hands are unsteady, but she’s sure she’s trembling too.  She moans as he runs a thumb over her peddled nipple, marvelling at the unexpected sensation.  He releases her breast, runs his hand over her ribs cage and around to her upper back.  His fingers trace the muscles there, and then he gently but firmly pulls her to him, until their stomachs and then their hips meet at last. 

Brienne gasps as their bodies touch, feeling for the first time the hardness of his cock as it rubs against her.  She knew, on one level, that this is what happens to men when they are aroused, but to hear it spoken of is one thing, to _feel_ it against her is something else entirely.  Shocked, and weirdly embarrassed, given the circumstances, she instinctively goes to move away, but Jaime holds her to him.

“This is what you do to me,” he whispers in her ear, his voice scratchy and slightly slurred in her ear.  “This is how much I want you”.

At his words, the private parts between her legs give a sudden, desperate throb, as if begging for contact. She feels mortifyingly wet there too. She is gripped by a longing inside her that she has never imagined possible. The room spins around her, as she clings to Jaime at its centre.

Experimentally, Brienne pushes her hips against Jaime’s, exploring the straining hardness beneath.  He emits a low, guttural sound that is almost a roar. It makes her feel gloriously feminine.  This is the power of women, she thinks, to reduce men to this. She does it again, this time rolling her hips, deliberately prolonging the contact, feeling the shape and size of him, the heat radiating from him.

Jaime goes tense.  “Fuck, Brienne”, he gasps. 

Yes, she thinks. _That’s exactly what I want to do.  Fuck. Fuck Jaime Lannister._

The thought scandalises and thrills her at once.  What would her old septa say, were she to know her charge had developed such sordid desires? 

But suddenly he’s pushing her away.

”Wait, wait, Brienne, too much…”

The removal of his body from hers is akin to having clothing torn from her, and she feels cold, bereft, exposed.  She can feel the absence of his skin on hers.  She gapes at him, wondering if she has done something wrong, if she should be upset. 

The hurt and shock must show on her face, because he looks suddenly stricken, and hastens to explain.  “Gods, Brienne.  I’m sorry.  I’m so close already…If you keep doing that, I’m not going to get to do anything more…”

She’s still confused, and must look it, because then he reaches down, takes her hand and says “It’s too good Brienne, too much.  We have so much we need to do before I lose it and disgrace myself.”

She’s still not entirely sure what he means, but the message is clear – he wants her. When she gains the courage to look back at him, she forgets her doubts. The expression on his face is one of one of awe and adoration and pure, animalistic lust.

“Bed?” she asks.

“Fuck, yes,” he answers.

So she leads him by their joined hands toward the cot in the corner of her room.  It’s only a few steps, but it feels like half way across Westeros. 

Brienne’s mind is whirling.  She’s going to lose her virginity, here, tonight, in this admittedly too-hot room, in this strange, cold place.  She’s unwed, and not like to be, but she feels no dishonour in this.  She’s aware that she’s affected by the buzz of the wine, the adrenaline of the fight, the exhalation of unexpected victory.  This is not the best time to make big decisions.  But, dammit, she wants this.  She’s wanted this – him - for nearly half a decade. She searches her feelings and finds no fear, or regret, and surprisingly little guilt. Just the calm certainty that she wants to experience this, with Jaime, before they are again torn apart by war, or duty.  Or death.

When they reach the bed, Brienne cautiously sits down on the edge.  Jaime stays standing, awkwardly, above her.  His desire remains intensely obvious, his erection thrusting the linen of his breeches out toward her.  It’s directly in her field of vision, and, unbidden, she imagines herself pushing down his pants, taking him in her mouth, doing to him the forbidden, sordid things she’s heard men joke about.  It doesn’t seem sordid now, just deliciously tempting.

But Jaime doesn’t give her a chance.  Taking her right hand in his left, he kneels before her, captures her gaze.  She can see he’s struggling with his own thoughts, and perhaps doubts.  She knows that he cares for her, loves her even, but to become lovers is as much a matter of honour for him as her. He is proud of only having been with one woman, a personal achievement he has clung to as the other accoutrements of honour have been stripped from him one by one.  No matter what remains between he and Cersei now, Brienne knows that if he takes her tonight, it will be the final betrayal of their decade’s long bond. However much he wants her, taking that step cannot be easy.

Whatever his doubts, Jaime seems to push them aside.  Still holding her hand, still on his knees, he asks her:  “Do you know what men and women do together? What I want to do with you, tonight?”

She is shocked by the question, and slightly alarmed that she isn’t sure how to answer it. She covers her dismay with a contemptuous snort, but she cannot prevent the flush of red she knows is spreading from her face to her chest.

“What do you think?  I’ve spent a decade around camps, Jaime.  I’ve seen what goes on. I’ve been threatened, too.  I’m a maid, yes, but I’m not completely ignorant, nor stupid.”

It wasn’t an answer, not really.  But the truth is she didn’t know, not truly.  Her septa had explained some of the mechanics, but most of her education came from bawdy jokes, crass boasts and glimpses in the dark.  She has seen men in the camps take women, by firesides and behind storage tents.  She has seen men take men too.  She has heard their sounds, of pleasure and occasionally pain, and those sounds have haunted her thoughts, fed a sense of longing for something she knows she is missing, but has long accepted she can’t have. 

Only she was wrong, apparently, about not being able to have it.

Jaime leans his head to the side, his mouth a thin line. He looks worried. _He doesn’t believe me_ , she thinks.      

So she shows him.  She takes his left hand in hers, and draws it between her open legs.  “I know you … you take me … here,” she whispers to him.

She’s still wearing her breechers, but the feel of his hand against her most sensitive parts sends a wave of pleasure from her core through her back. His breath hitches in his throat, and his fingers close slightly to cradle her mound.

“I know it can, done right, feel good, even for a woman”, she continues. She can’t quite believe she’s talking like this, even with the wine, but she’s not about the stop.  She needs Jaime to know.  “I trust you to make me feel good, Jaime.” 

He groans, and pulls her down and captures her mouth in a desperate, forceful kiss. Brienne feels as if he is devouring her, or perhaps she is sinking into him.  He presses his hands against her even more firmly, fingers stroking through the fabric, finding a place that makes her body jolt and sing.   

“Oh!” She gasps, as his thumb touches her most sensitive part. 

He smirks, and she’s sure the pink blush is now a scarlet red. He leans closer to her, so his mouth is next to her ear and she can feel the heat of his breath.

“That’s right.  I’m going to put my cock inside you,” he tells her, stroking her, teasing her. “As deep as I can go.  Again and again and again...”

 

**Jaime**

Jaime hopes he is pulling off dashing and confident, but fears he’s closer to desperate and pathetic.  Still, given the alcohol, lust and all-consuming longing that is coursing through his blood right now, he’s rather relieved to be capable of any kind of speech. 

His left hand is on Brienne’s mound, clumsily working at her through the fabric.  She squeezes her legs together, holding him closer, and makes gratifying little moaning noises as he touches her through her breechers. 

 _I should just rip them off her_ , he thinks.

But he doesn’t. He’s worried that this is all a dream, that if he touches her he’ll wake.  Or that it’s real, but he’ll do something to scare her so she sends him away.

Truth is, despite his decades of so-called experience, he has no fucking idea what he is doing. He’s not thinking straight besides.  He’s pretty certain any half-experienced woman would be pushing him out of bed.  Cersei would tell him he’s sounding like a fucking idiot and acting like a dunce, but he doesn’t want to think about her right now. Brienne at least acts excited by his words, even if inside she is secretly cringing. 

_Thank the Gods she’s got nothing to compare me to. Another reason, albeit the most pathetic one, to be grateful she is a maiden_

Jaime continues to stroke and tease Brienne as he kisses the ear he whispered into, her jawline, her elegant neck, and the three scars at the nape wear the bear left its mark.  Years have passed, and they are still angry and red, a permanent reminder of their trials and the bond they formed.

His head is buzzing, his cock is throbbing, and he’s having a hard time focusing.  He has a nearly all-consuming desire to just take her, but he forces himself to sit back again to take stock. 

Brienne half sits, half lies before him.  Her legs, where he was touching her, are open.  Her face is red, her bare chest pink, her hair mussed and lips swollen. She’s a delightful combination of heart-breakingly innocent and completely ravished.

First times are meant to be a big deal, particularly for ladies. Jaime desperately wants to make things good for her, but he doesn’t have a point of reference.  He’s only ever been with Cersei, and he can’t remember his first time with her.  His memories are of a succession of steps toward the inevitable, always with her in the lead.  Cersei kissing him, Cersei squeezing him, stroking him, Cersei taking him in her mouth, and then her cunt. Cersei coming to him at the inn. Cersei telling him that they belonged together, that he belonged to her, that they were one person, torn in two, that he was part hers to control and pleasure and seek pleasure from in turn.  The things they had done were together were extreme, perverse, deeply private that he feels guilty even thinking of them now.  He has no idea if other couples do them.  Fuck, he has no idea what other couples do, or what he should do. He fears that to share these things with Brienne would both corrupt her and betray his intimacy with Cersei both, and he wants to do neither.

He has no reference point for first times, or for normal times either. He is tainted, and fumbling and clueless, and he has no right to any of this with Brienne.  He knows that. But he’s only a man, and not even a good one, and he wants her desperately. 

So, he does what he always does best, and puts on a mask of confidence a show of bravado and gets on with it.

He traces his fingers up her mount, to the waist of her breeches. 

“Let’s get you nice and ready” he purrs.

Brienne nods, tightens her grip on him.

Jaime’s good hand works the ties on her pants, loosening them sufficiently to reach inside.  She gives a little squeak of shock, instinctively clasping her legs shut, but that only serves to push his fingers deeper into her cunt.  She’s already wet and ready for him. She opens her legs beneath his ministrations, and he dips a finger into her, just slightly.

“Ohh,” she whispers, tightening around him.  “Oh.”

Slowly he collects her wetness on his finger, then drags the moisture up, over her clit.  He gives it a quick rub, then another.

“Oh gods,” she cries, this loud enough for passers-by to hear.  He feels as flush of pride that he’s brought her, his pure knight, to the point of blasphemy. 

He longs to put his mouth on her, taste her and claim her, but the intimacy of that act may need more time.  Instead, he continues with his hand, enjoying how her legs swing open and shut, up and down, as if she has no idea what do to with them.   It only takes a few more sweeps before she’s gasping and groaning, trying to hide her cries with her arm, and then desperately driving her face into the straw pillow.

Finally, she pushes his hand away. 

“Sensitive,” she explains, blushing profusely.

Jaime’s not entirely sure if she came.  He’s losing track of most of his thinking processes, along with any powers of observation.  He’s losing focus on everything but the agonising need of his cock, as it strains against his breeches.  With two hands, he could have multitasked, removed his clothing while continuing to touch her, but that’s impossible now.  Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand, and then pushes himself to his feet to stand in front of his lady.  She watches him intently, legs and lips open, panting softly.  The vision before him alone is almost enough in and of itself to send him over the edge.  He reaches down to his crotch to undo the lacings and display himself to her. 

Only frustratingly, and much to his humiliation, the knots seemed to have doubled over and sealed closed during the day, and, rather than suavely removing them, he’s fumbling again.   Nerves, alcohol and the stretched and tented linen were making this far harder than it should be. That Brienne is watching him make such a fool of himself made this immeasurably worse. He can’t but feel a rush of embarrassment and shame at his inability to accomplish what any child should be able to. 

“I assure you, undressing myself is not usually this hard…” He mumbles.

It’s really not.  Cersei has shown little emotional sympathy for his condition, but as with so many things she was surprisingly practical.  His clothing at Kings Landing had been made with clasps and buttons and loops – easy to put on and remove.  Most of what he had here were castoff. Homespun blacks and browns, plain linen, bloody ties and strings.  Some mornings it took him longer to get dressed than a pimped out noblewoman, but strutting around in red and gold here would be suicide.

Brienne comes to his rescue.  “Let me…”

He wants to refuse her aid, but before he can, her two hands capture his one.  She strokes him through his pants, imitating what he did to her, and he groans. At least he’ll enjoy it.

“Gods Brienne, not helping…”

She undoes the ties with ease, but also tries to save his ego, sort of.  “I doubt you’re usually this drunk.”

He laughs.  _Or as nervous_ , he thinks honestly.

Brienne quickly releases the last stubborn tie, pulling loose the waistband.  Her hands linger of his waist and she glances up and him, seemingly seeking permission for the final step.  He nods.  Gods, yes. Carefully, she manipulates the coarse fabric down over his hips.  There’s a moment of uncomfortable burning of the awful linen against his engorged cock, and then it springs free. 

Brienne gasps at the sight of him, and Jaime feels a wave of pleasure to think this is the first erection she’s ever seen. He’s of average size, really, but he feels like an absolute god as her eyes widen as they run over his length.

She’s seen his flaccid cock before, in the baths at Harenhall, and before that, on the road, when he was sick and delirious and she’d cleaned and bathed him. But she’s never seen him like this.

Brienne seems to realise he is watching her watching him, and she flushes an even darker red colour. He feels a wave of another pride that he can have this effect on her.  His cock jumps in enthusiastic agreement.

Slowly, he climbs onto his knees on the bed above her.  He is a little unsteady, but he manages to pull off prowling toward her with a reasonable amount of grace.  He pushes her back against the furs, crawling up her body in turn.  He cock bobs between them.  He leans down to suck a breast into his mouth, enjoys the sound of her pleasure.  Then he moves up, kisses her again, long and deep.  He’s already close, every bump of his cock on her body sends shockwaves of pleasure though him.  Gods, but he’s going to have to get going or he’ll truly humiliate himself.

He reaches down to tug at her waistband, and she does likewise to help him. Together they work to get her breeches off, pulling and pushing them down her long legs. He runs his fingers up her thigh, and then again dips them between her legs.  She’s hot and very wet. Ready for him.  Pressed beneath him, she opens her legs wider, bending them at the knee to make a cradle.  He moves himself into position, resting his hips in the cradle of hers.  He fears this will hurt her, and although he knows she is no stranger to pain, he wants nothing to mar this.  He needs to open her, get the best angle him can to minimise the discomfort.  He’s not sure he can rely upon his self-control to take things slow.  He pulls one long thigh up, over his hips. 

She’s watching him intently, fascinated. 

Reaching down between, he takes his cock in hand, runs it over her wet cleft.  Then he positions it at her entrance.  The desire to just plunge in is almost overwhelming. 

That decent part of him – the part that belongs to Brienne -wants to ask her if she is sure.  Does she really want to do this, share this, with a drunken, dishonourable, middle-aged cripple?  But another part of him, the more selfish and needy part of Jamie Lannister, is scared that if he asks her, she’ll surely have second thoughts, say no, tell him to leave.  That would, after all, be the sensible thing to do, and Brienne was nothing if not sensible.

So he doesn’t ask.   Instead, he leans down and kisses her harder, swallows any protest she might have, tries to keep her brain from forming one, and slowly, so slowly, slides into her.

_Brienne.  My lady, my light, my saviour._

 

**Brienne**

She gasps as her enters her, flinches, digs her fingers into his back, muscles clenching as she tries to adjust to the sensation of being filled so completely, by someone else.

It doesn’t hurt, not really, but the feeling is unlike anything else she’s experienced before. 

She’d half expected pain.  Her old septa had warned her that horseriding would wear away her maidenhead, denying her future husband the reputed pleasure of breaking it. Well, she didn’t have a husband, but the other part of the story appeared to have some merit, much to her benefit, and probably also Jaime’s.

 _Jaime._   _Gods, she’s fucking Jaime Lannister._

 _He’s so incredibly beautiful_ she thinks, and he hovers above her.  He’s vulnerable too, a little worn around the edges, and damaged in parts.  He’s unevenly holding himself up on his good left hand and the forearm of his right.

His eyes are squeezed closed and he appears to be trembling with the effort of controlling himself.

Cautiously, Brienne glances down to where they are joined.  She can’t see much, the darker hair at his groin mixing with her fair bush. Still, she can see enough of what is happening to think that she looks wanton, one leg flung around Jamie’s waist, the other bent, flat against the bed, exposing herself to him.  Allowing herself to be taken, violated, and she’s enjoying enjoying it.

“Brienne, look at me”.

Jaime’s voice is slightly slurred, desperate but firm.  She draws her gaze up his chest, his neck, and meets his searing eyes.  He’d closed them as he entered her, but now, sheathed in her, he earnestly meets her gaze.  

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods.  “Yes”.

And she is.  More than okay, really.  She feels wonderful.  Content, and excited, and, unusually for her, joyful.  They have won a war against impossible odds.  She is alive, Pod and Sansa and Arya are alive.  And Jaime is both alive, and, finally, unbelievably, here with her.  No doubt the wine is contributing to her euphoria as well, but it’s even making her happy to know that she allowed herself do something as uncharacteristic as unwind and drink.  She has so few memories of being relaxed or happy. No matter what happens, she is going to cherish this one.

Brienne reaches up and gently touches Jaime’s cheek.  He turns his mouth to her palm and kisses it.  His whole body is shaking with restraint, like a caged beast.  Her golden lion.

It’s time to let him have what he wants. What he needs.

So she lifts her other leg and wraps it around his hips.  Then she squeezes her muscles and slaps her foot into his rear.

“Take me”, she commands.

He obeys. 

She feels him draw out and then push back in again, slowly.  Once.  She squeezes his hard, using muscles she barely knew she had.

“More”.

He does it again.  Faster. Twice. Three times.  Four.

He groans.  “Gods.  So good…”

Brienne can feels a jolt of pure pleasure with each thrust.  She raises her other leg, squeezes  and grinds against him, trying to draw him inside her, hold him inside her, milk every scrap of him.  

His thrusts get faster, clumsier more erratic still as he losses himself in her.  He swears under his breath, and then, almost desperately tries to get his hand between them, to find her clit. But his balance isn’t good, and he falters, and she has to hold him with her legs.  She squeezes again, cunt and legs both, and he cries out in panic.

 “Oh, gods. Fuck.  No!”

And then his release is upon him. He roars, thrusts as deeply as he can, grinds against her and it feels to Brienne that he is trying to bury himself in her as he spills in her with three quick thrusts.

The world pauses and freezes for a moment.  Then he collapses on top of her with a groan. He’s sweating, breathing hard and his heart is pounding in his chest.

Her groin is tingling.  She gives him an experimental squeeze, and she can feel him softening inside her. 

“Gods, I’m sorry Brienne,”  he mumbles. “Give me a second, and I’ll use my hands, or my mouth”.

He starts to push himself up, but she tightens her legs around him, blocks his withdrawal.

“Stay”.

Jaime shakes his head.  “But, you…you’re not finished”.

She smiles and reaches up to touch his face.  “It’s okay.  There’s lots of time for that later.  I just … I just want to hold you. I’m plenty strong enough. Please, stay.”

He nods, and slowly lowers himself back into the cradle of her hips and chest and buries his face in her neck.  She strokes them gently, marveling that he’s here with her. 

“That was really nice”, she says.

“Nice”, he snorts, face buried in her neck.  “Just what every man wants to hear from a lady he’s ravished.”

She laughs. “Jaime, it was more than nice.  It was wonderful.”

She feels him relax, muscles releasing eons of build up tension.

“Thank you” he whispers to her.  "Thank you, for letting me in."

 _In._ _Into my room, my body, my heart._ She thinks.

“I swear I’ll do better next time.”

“There’s really no need…” She begins.  But then she realizes it's promise of more.  She’ll take it.

She has no expectations, but so many dreams. They will do for now. Content and relaxed, she drifts off to sleep, Jaime in her arms, and between her legs.


	2. Before the Light - morning - Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (early) morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that scene after the oathsex, where Jaime is lying next to Brienne, not touching her, and staring into space? I actually didn't mind it. But I never saw it as "oh no" regret. In my canon, the oathsex would be as big a deal for Jaime as for Brienne, and I can well imagine that he would be conflicted and maybe a little guilty in the aftermath. Here's my attempt to explain that scene, as well as to start them on the path to the happiness that Jaime expresses to Tyrion a couple of days later. 
> 
> Again, unbeta-ed, although I have tried to find the errors, some have no doubt slipped through. I've also decided to stick with UK-English spellings, so I apologise in advance to American readers for the apparently superfluous "u"s and strangely placed "s"s.

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Jaime**

Jaime waits for Brienne’s breathing to become regular and steady before gently rolling off her and onto his back.   She stirs a little, rolls onto her but doesn’t wake.

He is somewhat amazed that she could fall asleep beneath him.  He would never have lain on Cersei so long.  Even if she could have stood the weight of him, she’d likely have considered him settling it on her disrespectful. 

But he doesn’t want to think of Cersei - not now.

Instead, he gazes fixedly at the ceiling. It’s lower than those in Castely Rock and the Red Keep, he thinks pointlessly.  Soft shadows flicker in the corners and he tries to lose himself in their hypnotic pattern.

But try as he might to _not think,_ Jaime feels the now-inevitable waves of self-recrimination begin to wash over him, tastes the bitter and all too familiar taste of self-loathing rising in his mouth.

This is the fucking reality of his life now. _The weight of my sins._ Hadn’t Catelyn Stark told him the darkness would catch him eventually?  He hated that she was right.  Hated, too, that at times like this he almost seemed to enjoy cataloguing his many sins.

He starts with the lesser of his night’s offences.  His performance.  It really had been appalling.

Of all the ways he had imagined _having_ Brienne – and, oh, had he imagined _ways_ , in that tent at Riverun, on his long and lonely ride North – drunken groping followed by a few clumsy thrusts had not been amongst them.

He’d tried not to finish, but he’d had a hard time keeping it together.   Her long, strong legs around him, her tight passage gripping him and squeezing him, the way she cautiously thrust against him, clutched at him, made those soft little moaning noises.  It had just been too much.

But his performance of the act wasn’t the only appalling part of it.  

Brienne is so good, so righteous, so steadfast and reliable.  She deserves someone like her.  Someone who isn’t disgraced. Someone who isn’t an oath-breaking, kingslaying, sister-fucking screwup. Someone who hasn’t sired four children, lost three of them and abandoned the fourth.  Someone who hasn’t pushed one boy out a window and threatened to catapult another over a wall.  Who hasn’t killed his cousin or turned a blind eye to his sister blowing up a fucking sept. 

Someone with the kind of honour and prospects that were now well beyond his grasp. 

Most of all, though, she deserves someone whose heart can be entirely hers.

Jaime knows with a cold certainly that that cannot be his.

Oh, he loves Brienne. He’s known that for years.  He's certainly known it when she sailed away from him at Riverrun, but probably suspected and denied it for years before that, at least since their journey to King’s Landing, and probably since she showed such bravery and honour when he’d cravenly left her at Harenhal.  He wanted her for even longer than that, from the time she slew those three Starke men outside that shanty inn and avenged those poor murdered girls.

So, yes, he loves Brienne and wants her and he has for years. 

But even now, lying beside her in the warmth of her room, satiated, he can feel the siren call of his sister.  Her soft hands on his flesh, her intoxicating words in his ear, the oblivion that came with being with her, in her. 

_Cersei. Cersei.  Cersei._

Cersei, who for all his faults, he had be loyal to for over forty years and who he had now absolutely betrayed. 

That fidelity had been the last remaining strand on the frayed and shredded rope that had carried his honour.  And he’d severed it last night. 

_So now I’ve betrayed both of them. Cersei, and Brienne._

He really was a miserable old shit.

Beside him, Brienne murmurs something and pulls a fur around herself to protect against the rising chill. She’d gone to bed without putting another log on the fire.  Gently, he reaches over with his good hand, and pulls the covering a little higher, but not quite far enough to hide the alabaster curve of her shoulder and an expanse of muscles in her back.  He can’t resist gently stoking her bare shoulder as he does.  She’s warm, a little sticky with their dried sweat.  She smiles a little at his touch. 

His heart aches. 

His mouth is dry and he has the dull beginnings of a headache.  A h _angover._ Gods, just how much did he drink? 

Suddenly, he needs to piss, to rid himself of the remnants of his intoxication

Gently, so as not to wake Brienne, he crawls out of bed, nearly tripping over the furs. He stands in the room and considers for a moment.  What is the etiquette of this situation anyway?  He briefly considers setting off for the jakes, but he’s worried that she’ll wake and find him gone, and then what would she think?  Whatever the ramifications of last night, he’s not about to run out and leave her.  If nothing else, she’d be liable to flatten him.  He settles on using the chamberpot, and shuffles around till he finds it hidden beneath the bed.

Jaime positions himself, takes his cock in his hand.  It's then he notices that there is smear of red still clinging to it.  There's another spot in the crease of his thigh, a line down his groin.  _Marked by blood._ A reminder that he’d not only betrayed Brienne, but dishonoured her too.

_The most honourable maid in Westerous, dishonoured and un-maidened by its most notoriously dishonourable man._

_I shouldn’t have touched her at all,_ he thinks morosely.  He would like to blame his conniving brother and that stupid game, too much alcohol, and his insane mounting jealousy of that fuckwit Tormund.   But that would not be the entire truth.  Had he not been deliberately drinking to build up courage? Had he not encouraged her too?  He remembers moving Brienne’s hand from her cup and teasingly telling her to relax.  Another blast of shame.  He’d acted like some kind of fucking dog, wanting to claim her as his, and so he did.

 _And for what?_ He can’t offer her anything much, apparently not even a good lay.  It was damned possible she hadn’t come.

He’s disgusted with himself, and then disgusted that he’s disgusted with himself.  What has happened to him?

“I’m not that man anymore”, he’d told the crippled boy by the tree, by way of a half-basked apology.  _That man , the one he was before,_ would not have been crippled with guilt and self-recrimination.  That man did what he needed to do – what he _wanted to do_ actually _–_ and didn’t look back.

_But that wasn’t really true, was it?_

_Of course it bothers me_ , he had told his father, when Tywin asked about whether the sneers and disdain had bothered him. And it did.  Lion or not, he cared about the opinions of the people, the sheep.  If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have competed in those bloody lists or tourneys.  He wouldn’t have worn that ridiculously expensive armour and strutted around like a rooster.   Heck, if he hadn’t cared, he would have killed fucking Eddard Starke, in that courtyard, injured or not, and not given a toss about his bloody honour.  Maybe that would have prevented a war.  Saved his childrens’ lives.

His gorge rises and the bitter taste in his mouth makes him want to retch, but he swallows down the urge to vomit.  He wants to hit something, take out his aggression on an inanimate object (n _o longer a person, really ser Jaime?_ ), but there is little in Brienne’s sparse chambers that is likely to withstand an act of wanton violence, and he doesn’t want to add vandalising her property to his list of offences against her. 

He settles for snatching the fire poker from its stand, and viciously poking the dying embers of fireplace.  A few sparks fly, and one sizzles painfully on his arm.

_Good._

“Jaime?”

He jumps at the sound of Brienne’s voice. How long had she been watching him?

He turns to look at her.  She’s half sitting in bed, blankets clutched over her broad chest.  Her hair is mussed, the ends ever so slightly curling.  In the soft light of the fire, with her swollen lips and creamy skin, she could almost be pretty. Not that he would tell her that, but only because she would never believe him _.  And I don’t want to fight._

Looking at her now, Jaime finds that his feelings of doubt and self-loathing begin a sudden retreat, dragging with them his tattered honour and that promise not to touch her.

_Gods, he wants her again._

“My lady _,”_ he says, standing up.

It’s a ludicrous thing to say, and he knows as soon as it passes his lips. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, alert as she always is to insult and mockery. 

“So we’re back to formal titles now are we?” she asks cautiously. “If so, it’s s _er.”_

He inwardly winches.

“Brienne,” he says gently, correctly himself. “I’m sorry, Brienne.  Habit.  I’d hope we’re on first name basis now.”

She seems to relax a little at that. 

He stands awkwardly and shuffles his bare feet, unsure what more to say. She’s uncertain too, hiding her body beneath those covers, a contrast to his nakedness.

When he glances up, she’s appraising him carefully with those lovely blue eyes. He stands still before her scrutiny. He’s acutely aware of how exposed he is, but finds he doesn’t care.  He’s not the man he used to be in a physical sense either, from his tattered and ugly stump to the deep lines on his face and his now wiry build.  Still, he hopes she still likes what she sees.

She blushes when she realises that he is watching her watching him.  Looks away, flustered, but then looks back more subtly. 

“Brienne-“ he begins, but he’s not sure what more to say.

He’s sorry, but he’s not. He doesn’t deserve her, but her wants her anyway.  He should leave, but he wants to stay, be back inside her. 

Finally, it’s Brienne who takes the initiative.

“Is this where you tell me last night was a mistake?” she asks cautiously.

He looks up at her suddenly, and his face must betray him, because she immediately looks hurt.

“Very well” she breathes, pulling the covers around herself more tightly. 

“No, Brienne,” he says hurriedly. “Well, not a mistake like that, anyway.”

“Then like what?”

She stands up, clutching the blankets around herself, and approaches him cautiously.  He is fixed to the spot, watching her approach. 

“I…” He curses this new inability to talk.  He used to have so many words, so many smart and snarky things to say, but he finds himself tongue-tied and wordless around her now.

Brienne, again, comes to his rescue.

“Jaime, I went to sleep with you in my arms, happier than I have been in a long time.  I thought you were happy too.  But I wake to find you committing an act of violence against my fireplace.  I will grant that you are probably hungover – Gods, I feel seedy too, and I didn’t drink anything like what you did.  But there is clearly something else wrong.”  

She pauses, swallows, and he can see pain and confusion etched on her face, shining in her eyes.  “Please tell me.”

He sighs, and looking down, then reaches out and takes her right hand with his left. 

"Brienne, I've dishonoured you."

She blinks. "How?"

"This,” he indicates the room.  "Us.”

It’s the first time he’s said it.  “Us”.  He’s not sure he’s ever used it with Cersei either.  “We”, yes, when talking about them.  But not “us”.  It’s got a nice ring to it.  

Oh gods, there are tears in her eyes.  He is lost for words.

"Jaime, look at me," Brienne says, drawing his face toward her.  "I do not feel dishonoured.”  He words are firm and decisive.  “I am feeling a little pissed off, maybe, that you seem to be assuming I had no part to play in this.  But I am not dishonoured.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“My part in last night was as great as yours.  I let you into my room.  I asked you if you were jealous of Tormund.  I undid your shirt, and took it off you.  I took mine off too.  I choose this, because I wanted it.”

She takes another breath. “I have wanted you for years, Jaime. All that time, I have wanted this with you.  And I don’t regret a thing.”

Of all the thing he was expecting her to say, that was not it.  His mind runs through various things he could say in response, but none seem quite right. 

He settles on “Um…”.

_Smooth._

Fortunately, notwithstanding his brain is malfunctioning, his cock seems to know what to do.  The sight of Brienne clutching the sheets to her chest, the memory of last night, her pronouncement that she’s _wanted him for years,_ are enough to cause it to rise from a half-mast fire-warmed position to fully erect in moments. 

Unable to miss it, Brienne stares at it's rise to attention with a garbled gasp that also goes straight to his groin.

“Well, I’m glad that’s sorted,”  he finally says, trying to pull back into place the pieces of his usual cocky façade.

She gives him a look that says, clearly, _you’re_ _an idiot._ A large part of him couldn’t agree more.  The other part, the part that insists on self reflection, he pushes to one side and determinedly ignores. 

“This really hasn’t been my finest performance,” he admits, with a rueful smile.  “Ser Brienne, I humbly beseech you to give me a chance to do better.”

It could be taken in so many ways - _last night, this morning, my life in general -_ but open ended is exactly how he means it. 

She smiles, a big smile that includes a rare flash of white teeth.

“Well, ser, I expect you to commit to doing _better_.  Even if it takes a couple of tries.”

“I think it might take more than a couple of tries.”

“Well, we better get started then.”

He doesn’t have to been told twice.  He bridges the small divide between them in a single step and captures her mouth in a kiss.

With a moan, he uses both arms to pull her closer. He feels the blanket fall to the floor as Brienne raises her arms to lock them around his shoulder and waist.  His cock pulses and writhes between them. 

They kiss for maybe minutes, before his need becomes too great. They sink to the the floor, resting on the threadbare mat before the fireplace, she on her back and he above her, resting somewhat awkwardly on his handless arm. The rug is nothing like the luxurious carpets of the Red Keep, but at least it is warm, and Jaime thinks that he wouldn’t care anyway if it was raw earth or pavement, so long as he could be with Brienne.

She opens her legs and pulls him down on top of her. 

His cock touches her wet folds, and his hips instinctively buck and rub it against her.  The temptation to just sink himself into her warmth is nearly overwhelming.  But this time, Jaime has other plans. 

He pulls his lips from hers, ignoring the little whine she makes, and starts running his mouth softly down her cheek, her neck.  Beneath him, she is breathing deeply, chest rising and falling as he licks and sucks his way down to her breasts.  He laps at one while touching the other, and then changes sides.  She’s scarred in several places, pock marks and red and white lines, and he traces every one of them with his tongue.

Then he moves lower, over the flat expanse of her stomach, until his chin brushes the soft hair at her crotch.  She gasps, and he spares a look up at her.  Her small breasts are heaving, her head flung back.  Her lips parted, and an arm thrown over her eyes.  Notice his sudden lack of touch, she looks up from under the arm, and he meets her eyes.  They are wide and scandalised but brimming with desire.  He gives her a sizzling grin, and moves that extra couple of inches down to rest his head between her legs.

Brienne gives a horrified squeal. “Jaime, I –what are you - ?”

“Sshhh” he whispers. “Just, trust me”.

He has only his experience with Cersei to work with, and he knows she’s not like other women.  But he also knows she liked this, and has gathered from the conversations of other men that other women do to. He has always considered this one of the most intimate acts h can do, and he wants to share it with Brienne too,  to make her feel herself what she does to him.

Gently, Jaime rest his his head on her thigh.  She’s hairier than Cersei, who always trims and perfumes her cunt, but he finds himself delighted by the wildness of Brienne.  

Taking a deep breath, he blows gently on the top of her slit.  She shudders and cries out. 

Then he reaches up, somewhat clumsily with his left hand, and opens her lower lips. She’s already incredibly wet, and his fingers slide over her.

“Oh, gods, what are you doing?” She gasps, moving her hips against him.

“Getting a look. You’re beautiful here Brienne,” he replies.

She moans in reply.  She’s flushed all over, pink from head to foot.  “Whatever it is, Jaime please, do it.  I’m…Oh, I need something.”

He smiles to himself, and then gently leans forward, and licks her where she’s open to him. 

Brienne almost jumps.  She emits a sound that is somewhere between a scream and a sob.  He legs fly open, and then close around his head, perhaps unsure whether to expose more or herself or pull him inside her.  Her fingers grab and clutch his hair.  He smiles to himself in satisfaction and buries his face in her cleft.

“Oh! Oh gosh, oh…” She’s chanting, making other incoherent noises.  He finds he is echoing them as he licks at her. His crotch grins against the rugs, and he prays to the seven that he doesn’t come then and there.

Brienne raises her legs on either side until her knees are on her chest and she is fully exposed to his ministrations.  Her hands grasp her hair, nearly pulling it out, and she rocks back and forth against mouth, trembling and shuddering as he continues to lick and suck and explore until, finally, with a shudder and a final cry – _half Winterfell must have heard that_ \- she comes.

This time, he’s sure of it.

They lie still for a barely a second, his head on her thigh, and then he pushes himself up her body.

He knows he should be more of a gentleman about this, wait for her to calm down, for any sensitivity to fade, but his cock is in agony and he can’t wait.  Moving into position, he places his cock at her entrance, and claims her with a long, hard thrust.  Then another, and another.

It’s still a bit clumsy, but they find the rhythm much more easily than the first time.  He knows it won’t take long, but at least this time she’s been taken care of, and he can focus on his own pleasure.  And Gods, what pleasure.  It’s so good, almost too good.  She’s so wet and tight and willing.  Jaime can feel his orgasm building within half a dozen strokes, the an intense sense of pressure and agony.  He dares another thrust, then another, and then he roars and, agonisingly, pulls out of her.

Brienne makes a startled, disappointed sound, but her breath catches in her throat as, in front of her widening eyes, he takes himself in his hand, gives himself two quick pumps and spills himself between them.

Spent, Jaime collapses next to her, and pulls her too him.  They are both breathing heavily, gulping in mouthfuls of air that is full of the smell of her slick and his cum.

 “Years, huh?” he says finally.

“What?”

“Years,” he says, and he can’t keep the grin out of his voice or off his face.  “You said you’ve wanted me for years.”

She groans.  “You are never going to let me forget I said that, are you?”

“Probably not.  So, when did you first want me?  If it’s _years_ , I’m guessing before Riverrun?”

“I’m not answering that…”

“Let me see…I know! When you threw me in that dingy?  You were gazing at me lovingly while you rowed…”

She hits him, not too gently, across his chest.  He laughs, catches her hand, and pulls her down for another kiss.  

Everything is not better, not yet, probably not ever.  But at least for now, with Brienne laughing in his arms, he can pretend to forget. 


	3. A New Day - Brienne

**Brienne**

Brienne will never admit this to anyone, and indeed feels a little sordid admitting it even to herself, but she adores watching Jaime, at his climax, spill himself before her. She loves watching his beautiful face contort in ecstasy, his cock strain and erupt with his seed.

Granted, she’s only seen it twice - first on the rug, and just now, thrillingly, on her stomach.  But she can’t imagine getting tired of it anytime soon.

She can feel the warm seed on her skin as they gasp for breath in the early morning light.  Jaime is draped across her, one leg slung lazily over hers, his right arm over her chest, his now-soft cock against her hip. 

She strokes the end of his arm gently, fingers of left hand gently massaging the scares she knows pain him still.

“Well, now I’m completely done,” he murmurs in her ear, still breathing heavily.  “An all-night battle with wights hasn’t got anything on you, wench.”

She hums her agreement, although she’s only half listening.  Slowly, she brings her right hand from between them to her stomach, then cautiously traces a finger through the creamy substance he left there.  It’s a bit sticky. 

Jaime watches her, head of her shoulder, transfixed.

“This is what makes children?” she asks.

Jaime snorts. “As far as I know.  Not sure of the details, save that it clearly takes two.”

She smiles and turns her head to face him. Their noses are almost touching. They are lying on her bed, the covers and furs of which are now long gone, strewn everywhere, but mainly the floor.  The fire is dull, but the room still feels warm, a happy result of their exertions. She should get up and wash herself, but the basin seems a long way away and Jaime is warm and close.  _S_ _leeping with someone is surprisingly messy_ , she thinks, _what with the saliva and sweat, my slickness, his seed_.   But she’s well used to blood and bodily fluids, and there is something about this mess that is charming rather than foul.

“You come outside me to prevent pregnancy.”

Jaime is clearly a little taken back by the boldness of the statement, but he nods.  “It’s not foolproof, but it seems to work well enough. It’s not easy on me though.  Right near the best part I have to, well, _withdraw_.  But it’s worth it, to have you.  And not put a bastard in your belly.”

 _Very much worth it to have you too, yes_ , she thinks.  Now she knows why there are so many bastards in women’s bellies, and other places.  Before tonight, they had seemed to be a consequence of madness and lust, of weak men and vulnerable women.  But now she knows better. 

_No. I don’t really know better, so much as I now understand._

Unbidden, a thought, a niggly worry, stirs in the back of her mind. She examines it, and it unfurls and takes root.  She reaches her left hand over to stroke Jaime’s cheek, and to draw his face to hers so she can meet his green eyes. He leans into her touch.

“That first time, you came inside me.”

As soon as she’s said it, the half-formed words settle heavily in her mind and her chest.

“Yes, I … well, I wasn’t thinking,” Jaime admits cautiously.  “It was all rather overwhelming.  I am sorry about that.”

 _Sorry._ It doesn’t seem a particularly useful word in the circumstances.  Sorry for what? That they had the kind of drunken sex where you risk pregnancy? That it was so good he forgot himself?  That this is causing her worry? That he may have got her pregnant?  She examines that last possibility in her mind, trying to work out how she feels about it.  It does not seem very real.  A part of her still can’t believe that she’s done this.

Brienne runs her fingers across her stomach lightly.  She imagines the skin there swelling and stretching, a child inside.  The image fills her with both fascination and fear.  But while she can imagine that a time may come when fascination prevails, right now it’s definitely swamped by the fear. 

“It is unlikely, I think, that a child has taken”, she says finally, mainly to reassure herself. “I am not borne of a fertile people.  My mother had great deal of trouble conceiving, and not through lack of trying. My father too, despite his parade of women, has had few progeny.  I am the best he could do.”

Try and she might – and this is not the time to be maudlin - she can’t keep the sadness out of her voice. Between the long periods of barrenness, the miscarriages and the dead babes in arms, the dead son, her family endured much tragedy.  As tolerant and indulgent as he is with her, she knows she’s something of a disappointment to him as the successor to the title of Evenstar, and that her father feels the weight of his failure to produce a worthy heir.

Seemingly sensing her sadness, Jaime turns his head to kiss her palm. “He’s lucky to have you, Brienne.  He couldn’t possibly do any better.”

They are lovely words, and he probably means them, but Brienne has never been taken in by impractical flattery. 

“Yes he could.  He could have a son, or a clever, pretty girl who could win him a worthy one through marriage.”

 _Even for me, it would have been so much easier if Galladon had survived, if father had a living son._ Ideally a son who was as tall and broad as she is, but charismatic and authoritative like their father, rather than awkward and shy like her.  She would not have been jealous of such a brother, she thinks.  She would have welcomed him.   He could inherit the title to Tarth, become the Evenstar, care about things like allegiances and inheritances and fisheries and feasts.  He could attend the parties that fill her with dread, and make inspiring and patriotic speeches.  And even if, like her, he was taciturn and blunt and so ill-suited to speeches that he vomited his breakfast up in the solar before delivering one, _he_ could at least have found a wife to stand by his side and support him.  A worthy woman like Lady Sansa, beautiful and forceful.   It would not have been hard to find such a wife for such a tall, powerful man, a brother who was the beneficiary of the very traits that made her, a woman, so unattractive.  

But that is a silly dream.  She doesn’t have a brother, not anymore.  Tarth is bound to her.  _And I suppose I’ll have to return one day_.   _If I live._ Return to a people who mock her, and responsibilities she is ill-suited to.    

 _I could do it with Jaime beside me_.  The thought creeps into her mind, unsolicited and unwelcome.  She pushes the it aside quickly.  She is getting ahead of herself, soppy and sentimental.   _It’s only been one night._ Anyway, Jaime would not want to be Lord Tarth.  He doesn't even want to be Lord Lannister.   Their mutual abandonment of the roles given to them at birth was one of the ways in which they were most similar to each other.

Jaime watches her curiously as she sorts through her thoughts. He gives her that little smile and bits his lip.

“And how would your father feel if you came home carrying his grandson?” he asks finally.

Brienne pauses.  _How indeed?_ Her father is a proud and honourable man, but also a practical one.  He loves her.  She knows that he has endured considerable ridicule for allowing her to don armour and fight as a man, but he has borne it with great dignity, and actually seems proud of her.  She recalls that on one particularly dramatic occasion, when his banner men objected to her participation in a tourney, he had silenced them with a commanding voice that brooked no dissent.

“If you are to have a woman as you Evenstar – and you _are_ – then do you not want one who understands the burdens of a man?” 

Of course, her father had tried to give her the burdens of a woman too, as well as those of a man.  A husband and children, domestic duties.  But such efforts ended spectacularly badly, every time.  After the third disaster, he had resignedly let her go.  Cast her free from her duties on Tarth, and the island itself.   _Yet, he must have some hope of my return, as he has named no alternative heir._ Perhaps there is no alternative to name?  As she had told Jaime, hers really is not a fertile family, and she can think of no one else.

So, what would he do if she returned to him, pregnant but unwed?  She really cannot guess.

“Truth is, I don’t know what he would do,” she says honestly, rolling onto her back to stare at the shadowed ceiling. “Of course, he’d be embarrassed, but it wouldn’t be the first time I caused him to feel that.  I’m not young anymore.  He’s a practical man, proud but not sentimental. He’s run out of suitors.  I suspect that if I were to conceive a child, my father would be as like to welcome me home and as someone to legitimise the child as he would be to disown me and banish me from Tarth.”

They are silent for a moment, and then Jaime says, quietly. “And if you were to return to your windy little island, with a babe in belly or arms, and present him to your father, who would he tell his people is the father of their heir?” 

Brienne pauses, an answer on her lips, but she’s too afraid to say it. 

Jaime reaches his own conclusions. “Not Jaime Lannister, oathbreaker and kingslayer, then?”

 _Probably not, no._ She has to be realistic. As honourable as he usually is, her father is not too proud to lie. He would spin a tale of a brave soldier who died in the battle against the dead.  

“It wouldn’t be his choice though” she says firmly, meeting Jaime's green eyes with her own. “It would be mine”.   

He stares at her for a long moment.  His eyes burn with what looks like longing, and it makes her chest ache. She looks away, uncertain.  Why are they even discussing this anyway?  An accidental child is unlikely, and they are not like to plan one. _Not yet._

“We have no need to talk of this”, she says firmly. “What’s done is done.  We can’t change it and need not think about it, unless something unexpected does come to pass.”

Jaime looks away too, nods, his face becoming once again inscrutable. “Right.” 

He rolls over, then leans over the bed to look for his clothes. “It’s nearly dawn.  I should get going.”

“Going where?”  Brienne feels the sudden loss of his presence and reaches for his hand. “The castle is abed, and will be for some time after last night.  I doubt there is any servant in this castle sober enough to get up and cook us breakfast.”

He gives her a disbelieving look, a tantalising glimpse of the old Jaime. “Brienne, its morning.  If I leave any later, someone will see me.  I am hardly inconspicuous. And that person will talk, and the next person will talk.  And the next thing you know, the whole of Winterfell will know about … us.”

She hears the way his voice hitches slightly at the “us”, and she’d feels a little jump in her stomach too.  _There’s an ‘us’ now_. That will take getting use to.

Then she wonders if it has always been this way for him, hiding his affections, sneaking around, hurried encounters in dark places and stolen moments.  It's the stuff of teenage lovers, not adults.  Granted, Cersci and he were committing treason, and other serious sins, so she supposed it was warranted _._ There is a drama and darkness to that part of Jaime’s life that she can’t understand.  She thinks she’d like to try, even though thinking of it hurts her, but she knows now is not the time to ask.  She wonders what Jaime's secret life with Cersei has cost him.  Whatever happens between them, Brienne is determined that this relationship will will not extract the price of his one with her.

So she brings the conversation back to them, as best she can.

“I’m a knight of the seven kingdoms, Jaime.  Am I not entitled to take a lover?”

The word ‘lover’ sounds utterly sordid on her lips.  She’s never thought to say it, especially not in connection with herself.  The heated look on Jaime’s face when she does could melt the wall.  But he presses his lips together, and shakes his head.  Slowly, he takes her proffered hand and moves back onto the bed.

“I know you gave yourself to me, willingly, and I am glad of it.  More than glad.  But Brienne, you’re also the Maid of Tarth.  A noble lady, with the reputation that comes with it. Surely even you are not so naïve as to not know what that entails?”

Brienne sighs.  _This again?_   She grinds her teeth in frustration.

“The ‘Maid of Tarth'.”  She repeats the words bitterly. “Is that what they still call me, is it?”

Jaime throws her a confused look.  “You know they do.  Although after last night they will do so only in jest if we are not careful…”

She sighs deeply at that, sits up.  The covers fall from her chest, but for once she doesn’t reach for them. Given what he did to her last night, clothes seem somewhat passé.   

 “Jaime”, she says gently, but firmly, stroking the back of his hand. “Do you think it is not used in jest now?  Do you honestly think ‘the Maid of Tarth’ is some kind of honorific?  A mark of respect for my purity?” 

He looks startled.  “Of course.  It- “

“Oh, come on Jaime.  An 'honorific' it may have been once, when I was a girl.  And yes, I was proud of it then, proud to have my virtue intact and to be owned by no man.  But years have passed, and I am no longer a child, and everyone knows it.  Your brother was crude last night, but he was not far from the mark.  The 'maid of Tarth' is used in mockery.   Brienne of Tarth, the maid of Tarth.  Still a ...a virgin ... because, despite all the wealth of the Sapphire Isles, her father couldn’t even pay someone to take her.”

She’s pleased that her voice is very steady and calm.  She can hear her own pain, but there are no tears in her eyes.  She’s long accepted the truth.

“That’s certainly not what I…” Jaime begins.

But she cuts it off. “Isn’t it? You know it is true. You thought it as well, once.”

He looks away at that, drops his gaze to the furs in his lap. She’s right, about all of it, as he knows it. “I can’t take those words back, Brienne.  I wish I could.  I was disgraceful to you.  Although, if it’s any consolation, I was pretty revolting to everyone back then.”

Well, that's true as well.  Before she had ever met Jaime, she had known of his reputation.  A handsome, smirking menace, an entitled and reckless lordling who was as quick with biting words and devastating insults as he was with his golden blade.  The man who casually stabbed a king in the back and laughingly lounged on his throne.  She knew of others who still thought of him that way, usually with a combination of awe and disdain.  But she had never known that Jaime.  The man she met in Robb Starke’s camp was smart-mouthed, irritating beyond belief, and offensive in every way, but his barbs had seemed mainly defensive, more a porcupine than a lion.  And through that terrible journey, she had watched those spikes be stripped away, until she saw the real man beneath.

Still, had he been pretty horrible. “You were a bit of an ass” she concedes.  And then she adds, softly, “except maybe to Cersei”

It’s a low blow, but he takes it in his stride. “Except her.  And maybe Tyrion.  But she’d have killed me if I insulted her, and he had troubles enough.”  Jaime smirks. “And, in fairness, when I said those things to you, you were dragging me around on a chain.”

"I've long forgiven you Jaime. I'd done so even before we called that truce." _In_ _that bath._ _When I first saw you naked, in every sense._

"You know, you really are a remarkably understanding woman."

He leans in to kiss her, and she meets his mouth enthusiastically.  To her amazement, the feel of his lips on hers, and his arms moving around her, begins to enliven the warm, longing sensation in her stomach anew.  She wraps her arms around him and starts to pull him down on top of her again

Jaime laughs. “Gods, woman, you’re insatiable". He pushes himself up, awkwardly, on his good arm, so he’s above her.

"As much as I want to, I am old and I really don’t know that I can do this again right now.  And we really should get up.  My mouth is dry as a Dornish desert, my breathe would probably knock out an ox, and I can feel a hangover massing its forces in the back of my head.  I doubt you’ll get out of things much easier.  Also, we're both a mess. I should at least go get some water, and cloths for washing.”

Brienne sighs and nods. It’s the responsible thing, although the irony of Jaime being the one to suggest it isn't entirely lost on her. She feels his sudden absence - a sense of depletion - as he rolls out of the bed, but contents herself with watching him dress. He’s still gorgeous, despite everything; clean, lithe lines and corded muscles.  Even the stump he’s so ashamed of has a haunting beauty to it.

Dressing is not easy for him, with one hand.  At Kings Landing he probably had help, she realises.  She wonders whether she should offer assistance, or leave him some dignity.  Eventually, she decides to let it go.  He manages to dress himself enough, pulling on breeches and his loose shirt and shrugging into his coat. It's decent enough to go and get water, although the ties at his neck remain undone.  It’s actually a good look on him, scruffy and a bit rugged. His short hair stands on end.

 _Anyone who sees him will know what he has done,_ she thinks. 

But she was honest when she told him she didn't care.  Let them talk, she thinks.  Still, a small part of her wonders whether that’s still the alcohol talking, not her common sense, but she's happy to give him this, while she has the courage.  

When Jaime reaches the door, he pauses with his hand on the handle, watching her.  She’s sitting up naked, exposed, and now utterly uncaring.  He gives her a long look that leave her no doubt that he, at least, likes what he sees.

“Don’t be long” she says.

“I won’t.” He turns to the door, but then looks back to her.  He seems to wants to say something, but can’t quite form the words.

Again, she comes to his rescue.

“Jaime,” she says softly. “I’m not ashamed of us.  Truly.  There’s no need to hide.” 

He nods, smiles, raises the pitcher in a one handed wave, and is gone.

From here, she thinks, there can be no turning back.  

 

 


	4. A New Day - Jaime

**Jaime**

They don't quite walk out of her chambers hand in hand, but they don't hide that they are together either. 

_Together._

It’s a strange feeling for Jaime, who has much spent his entire life hiding his affections. 

_Other that that brief period of rebellion before some of Cersei’s more trusted servants during those few weeks after she was crowned.  After our children were gone and it no longer mattered.  But even that didn't last._

Still, Brienne's a private person, and he understands that public displays of affection make her uncomfortable.  She's tried hard to build that formal, strong, unemotional persona, and she’s scared that it would be too easy to undo it with girlish giggles or soppy behaviour. 

That she is not afraid to subtly let people know that she is his is more than enough for him a present.

They enter the hall together, and sit next to each other at the table, legs and arms almost touching.  Too close for friends.

Pod creeps in a bit later, looking seedy but happy.  He grins when he sees them, but says nothing beyond "good morning, sers".  The glint in his eye is enough to let them know that he _knows._ Brienne flushes a bit of red.  Jaime gives Pod a wink when she isn’t looking, and he smirks his congratulations in response. It is strangely gratifying to have the kid's approval.

Tyrion joins them later still, looking worse for wear himself.  He’s much less subtle than the squire, and pointedly asks Brienne how her night was.  To Jaime’s surprise, she smiles broadly and says "memorable”.  Jaime finds himself beaming a stupid grin of agreement. Tyrion smiles smugly, the little bastard clearly deciding to take some of the credit.

The day is a write off for most of the residents of Winterfell, or at least those who are not the injured or caring for them.  With nothing much to do Jaime finds a quiet spot to nurse his hangover and wait for Brienne to finish her duties with Lady Sansa.  She's gone only a short time, when she returns in short order, complaining that she's been told to "relax for once".  She's endearingly indignant about it.  

Later, they join an unlikely group of stragglers - _gods, even the Hound of all people_ \- in an impromptu sparing session in the courtyard.  It's a distraction, but the air is still thick with the scent of the dead, and no one's very into it.  Around them, small folk are haphazardly cleaning up the remaining grime and detritus. Brienne, unable to follow even Lady Sansa's command to relax, sets about directing them at it.  Jaime doesn't join her, knowing full well that orders from a Lannister are unlikely to assist. 

He steers clear of the afternoon's war council meeting too.  He's uncertain what his role is now the dead are gone, uncertain even of his continuing welcome here, but decides not to think too much about it at present.  He thinks, instead, of Brienne, and what he is going to do to her that evening. 

When evening arrives, Jaime finds his way to the Great Hall, and saves Brienne a seat for dinner. He is delighted when, as she joins him, she briefly lays a hand on his shoulder. After the meal is finished, and a musician plays and Pod sings, she lets him hold her hand. He can’t resist a satisfied smirk at Tormund, who is glowering at them over a huge mug of ale, largely ignoring the attractive women draped across his arm.

As night falls and people take their leave, Brienne takes his arm. There is no question that he is going anywhere other than her chambers.

They observe perfect decorum in the long corridor, each step seemingly a mile.  As soon as the door is closed, they collapse into each other with an unbridled hunger.

Jaime pushes her up against the sturdy wooden frame of the door, driving his groin against her.

“Gods, I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he groans. “Let the Hound nearly scalp me when we were sparing, I was so distracted.”

Brienne laughs, raises her head to give him better access to her neck. “And I have no idea what this afternoon’s meeting was about.  All I could think about was what we were doing last night…”

Jaime nuzzles her neck.  “Let’s make a few more distracting memories”.

He grabs her right hand with his left and drags her to the bed.  She’s momentarily unbalanced by the force of the pull, but recovers quickly, laughing.  Gods, he loves to hear her laugh, loud and throaty.

He’s already rock hard, and he’s not sure how long he’ll last, although he’s determined it will be longer than it was last night.  Still, he’s going to have to work quickly.

She helps him get undressed again – “stop being stubborn, it’s faster this way” – and quickly pulls off her clothing in turn, kicking off her boots breeches last.

She turns and bends over the pull the covers back from the bed, and Jaime is greeted by the site of her perfect rear end.  His cock leaps in delight. 

“Stay like that” he says, his voice a low, croaky rumble of desire.

“Like what –? “

She starts to stand, but he moves to grab her left hip, gently holding her in place. 

“Jaime-“

He cuts her off with a kiss below her ear, and a gentle caress down her back that makes her shiver.

His rests his stump on her right hip, then gently moves his left hand around, over her stomach, then down through her bush until he finds her entrance. Gently, he uses his fingers at her entrance. 

“Oh, gosh. Yes” she gasps.

She’s already wet – _good –_ so he dips in his fingers into the moisture and drags it up to her clit.

He's amazed how quickly she has taken to this.  She's still a little awkward and nervous, but she's so delightfully into it.  

He works on her for until she’s panting, and gasping and grinding against him, and then some more until she gives a groan, grinds against him a final time and stills. 

He gently leans her forward again, toward the bed. 

“Brace your hands on the bed, my lady,” he growls.

“Oh...oh my...” she says, but she does as requested. Hands on the bed and feet on the floor, her beautiful rear end in front of him.  He has a view of all of her, including her glistening entrance. His cock is about to explode.

"Jaime, this is ... well...I never would have thought..." 

"Trust me".

Grasping her hip with his good hand, he enters her from behind.  He releases a long, slow moan of pleasure. 

“Oh gosh, oh Gods” she pants.

The angle isn’t quite right, so he urges her to crawl forward on the bed, with him behind.  They both groan at the broken attachment.  He climbs onto the bed to kneel behind her, and pushes firmly back inside.

“How does this feel?" He asks.

“So good,” she groans. "But get moving."

She doesn’t need to ask twice.  He begins to push into her with long, slow, strong strokes and she pushes back against him.  It’s a little clumsy, still, but they find a rhythm, and together pick up the pace.  He marvels how well they work together, cooperating rather than competing.  There is none of the urgency or anger or desperation that he is used to, just a shared desire for pleasure and release.  Brienne gasps and grunts in a delightfully unladylike way that goes straight to his groin.  Unable to control himself, he starts to drive into her with an abased passion, and she meets him with equal abandon.  Jaime feels the crescendo build, and build, until with a groan, he pulls back, and out, and spills his seed on the skins between her legs.

Brienne’s legs are shaking as she collapses onto the bed in front of him, taking a prone position on her stomach.

“Hm.” She sighs. And then, after a moment, “I never imagined doing things like that.”

Jaime collapses beside her, pulls her onto her side and into his embrace.  "I hope you approve.”

“Very much. Although my old septa certainly wouldn’t.  I can recall her telling me it was a grave sin to allow a man to ‘ride me as an animal’.  I thought at the time she meant I shouldn’t carry a man on my back, but now I know what she was actually talking about!”

He laughed. “She clearly didn’t know what she was talking about.”

“Or what she was missing out on.”

He nuzzles her neck.  “Just wait, I’m only getting started.”


	5. The Gathering Storm - Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this chapter is bit rambly, and I am still not entirely happy with it, but the story needs to move on (to more smut...).
> 
> Fair warning that Jaime gets pretty dark in parts of this chapter. He is absolutely my favourite character (along with Brienne at any rate, and maybe Jorah), and I am on the redemption bandwagon, but I do not see him as necessarily "a good man", more as a man who was once good and desperately wants to get back there, but doesn't quite know how. Brienne brings out the best in him, Cersei the worst. 
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments and support.

**Brienne**

The Dragon Queen's council meeting breaks up, with little decided, as usual. Her Grace is eager to leave, to take her host and push for conquest of the south. Sansa is reticent to commit northern troops, citing the losses suffered already.  Snow is confused and conflicted and possibly out of his depth.  Tyrion rambles on. 

Brienne stays quiet in these meetings, unless directly asked for an opinion.  She's neither politically minded nor a general, and she does not know where she stands on this new battlefront anyway.  Renly was her king, and after he died, her devotion shifted first to Lady Stark and then to her daughters. Neither Arya nor Sansa is in line for the throne, and their support for Danearys appears tepid at best.  She supposes House Tarth remains sworn to House Baratheon, but the Baratheon line, other than maybe Cersei and the dubiously-legitimised Gendry, appears entirely dead. She wonders, briefly, what position, if any, her father is taking.   _I should write him soon_ , she thinks guiltily.

If she is honest with herself, she had had been too distracted throughout the meeting to participate anyway.  The discussion of moving on to King's Landing had put in her mind an image of Queen Cersei, proud and defiant on the walls of that city, beautiful despite her years and growing belly, cloaked in red and gold and facing down a dragon.  That in turn made her think about what Jaime would do, were his queen and child placed in such a position of peril.  And then (because she  _really_ did not want to dwell on the answer to that question), she started thinking of Jaime more generally, and then she started visualising Jaime and positions of a different kind. That led to thoughts about the previous nights, and then about the possibilities for tonight, and after that what little was left of her concentration fled.

Now, with the meeting breaking up and reality being forced back upon her, Brienne wonders instead how to tell Jaime about what is unfolding.  She also wonders  _what_ she can tell him.  No one really trusts him, other than her and perhaps Tyrion, and even her trust is not without its limits. While she’s confident Jaime will not deliberately betray them, she knows better than to put him in a position that would require him to actively betray his sister instead.  She must be circumspect about what she shares with him, even though she loathes the shadow that leaves over their relationship.

"Ser Brienne, a word?"  Lady Sansa's curt voice interrupts her thoughts. 

Brienne halts by the door and looks back to where the Lady of Winterfell stands, dark and rigid in her steel and leather and furs. She, too, is beautiful, nearly equal to Cersei, but cold and reserved.  A northern queen of ice to stand against Cersei's southern fire.

O _r Daeneyrs' dragon fire,_ comes the unbidden, unconscious addendum.

"Of course, my lady," Brienne replies solemnly.

Sansa nods to the rest of her retinue, dismissing them, and then walks over to Brienne.  Curiously, she takes her arm, wrapping her leather gloved hands around Brienne's metal vambrace. 

 "Walk with me," she says.

So Brienne does. It's unusual, this physical contact.   _Are we becoming friends?_ She wonders.  _Have we already become such?_   She isn't sure, although she supposes maybe they have.  Brienne is not used to having friends, at least not close female ones.  Pod, she supposes, is a friend.  And Jaime, of course.  She's shared a drink with the Hound, although that was more an apology than real bonding.  Tyrion has potential, but that is too new, and she finds his flippancy and rudeness confronting. 

They enter the courtyard together, arm in arm, Sansa asking polite questions about her health and her father.  Brienne answers distractedly, ponders that she has never walked arm in arm with anyone, before.  Sadly, not even Jaime.

At the thought of Jaime she looks upwards, and finds his figure leaning negligently against a battlement.  His eyes are on her - was he watching the great hall door? He holds up a hand in greeting.  She smiles back and nods.  He's always waiting, somewhere, after the meetings such as this, never far from her side.  She wonders what else he does with his time. 

Sansa follows her gaze and stiffens. 

"I will never understand what you see in him," she says dryly. 

Brienne grinds her teeth, but answers carefully.  "Ser Jaime is a good man."  _I've repeated it so often that it is beginning to sound trite, even to my own ears._

"So you keep saying," Sansa replies neutrally. 

"He saved my life many times, and my squire's too, and that of many other people."

"I will grant that he fought bravely during the Long Night.  His usefulness in that fight is not in dispute,” Sansa says. 

"He is eager to help here, too, my lady.  He has been training the men ..."

Sansa holds up her hand.  "I am sure he is doing his part.  And no one doubts that Ser Jaime is very dedicated when it comes to the people he..."  she pauses, searches for words, "…the people he cares about. It is his conduct toward those he does not that concerns me."

They stop walking, and Brienne turns to meet Sansa's gaze. It is unusual that she can look into another woman's eyes, usually she must look too far down.  Sansa’s expression is one of sadness and worry.  Brienne knows she must tread carefully.  She is well aware of Jaime's reputation, particularly here in the north.  He has done many things to merit that reputation, has threatened to do others, and has further sullied his name by playing to the notoriety. The north remembers such things, and it does not easily forgive.  So, while Brienne longs to defend his honour, and by extension her own, she's realistic enough to know Sansa's mind will not be easily changed, and she not in the mood to argue about this today. 

"What are you asking of me, my lady?" She asks quietly.

Sansa sighs.  "Brienne, I am doing my best to slow this war down, but I cannot delay the inevitable much longer.  Daenerys will march on King's Landing, and soon, and then your Ser Jaime is going to find himself in a very difficult position.  I wonder what that means for us."

"Us?"

"The North.  Jon."

 _But not "our queen",_ Brienne cannot help but notice.  Still, it's an entirely justified question, and one she has been avoiding too.

“He is but one man”, she says, lamely. "Why does it matter what he does?"

“One man, but a powerful one.  I cannot afford to underestimate him.  Too many others have made that mistake.”

Brienne’s gaze rises, unbidden, to where Jaime stands on the walls.  He doesn’t look too powerful anymore.  Just a middle aged man with a scruffy beard in unimpressive leather armour.  So different to the commanding presence she’d seen at Riverrun, to the majestic Ser Jaime, Lord Commander of the kingsguard of King’s Landing.   _Yet he is s_ _till the handsomest man I have ever seen._ Ironically, despite everything that has happened, people still remember him as a golden lion, even though he can no longer see much of that in himself.

"I know what is coming,” she assures Sansa. “Ser Jaime does to.  He's not an idiot."

Sansa smiles. "I not sure Tyrion entirely agrees with that assessment."

Brienne gives a brief grin at that too. "The Lannister brothers have a complicated relationship." 

Then she wonders, briefly, if Tyrion put Sansa up to this, but decides probably not. 

Cautiously Brienne asks a question that has been on her mind for some time. "My lady, notwithstanding the threat has passed, would Ser Jaime be welcome to stay here?"

Sansa frowns.  "He is currently here as my guest", she says carefully. "I am prepared extend my hospitality, he is willing to cooperate."

"May I ask what 'cooperate’ means, exactly?"

"He stays here, plays no active role in the war.  I will find a place for him, something worthy of his skills, whatever they may be.  He must have no communication with his sister, ever again."

Brienne nods.  "And if he isn't prepared to 'cooperate'?"

Sansa raises a perfect eyebrow.  The answer doesn't need to be said.  He can stay willingly, on her terms, or things will get difficult. 

Brienne nods in understanding.  "Very well. I will ask him of his intentions."

Sansa pats her arm comfortingly.  It's a strange gesture from a woman who is so much younger than her, and particularly from  _this_ woman, with her cold aloofness. It reminds Brienne, briefly, of Lady Catelyn, who treated her with both respect and a kind of condescending sympathy.  She supposes Sansa, like her mother, means well.   They start walking again, Sansa leading her toward the stairs to the tower and the battlements. 

The stairs to Jaime.  Sansa knows her well.  

"Were the Night's Watch still in need of men, I would suggest that he take the Black," Sansa muses. "I doubt that would option would meet favour with you, however."

Brienne can't prevent the blush rising to her cheeks. "No, my lady." 

"Brienne," Sansa begins again as they reach base of the tower, "I do this as a favour to you, not him.  You have been a great comfort to me. I care about you. Pod cares about you.  Even Arya kind of likes you, and she doesn’t really like anyone.  You have friends and family and a home here." 

The message could not be clearer.  _You are welcome here. You belong.  You don't have to throw yourself at a man just because he is desperate enough to have you_.  It's both gratifying and unintentionally degrading. Horrifyingly, Brienne feels tears form in her eyes.  She blinks them away.

"Thank you, my lady."  She says, very formally. "I appreciate your concern, and your friendship, and the home I have found here.  Your welfare will always be my first concern. But I give you my assurance that Ser Jaime presents no risk to you or your sister or the north.   I know that he has done terrible things, but he has never hidden them from me, and, there is so much more to him than the sum of mistakes."

 _I wish you could see them_ , she thinks.   _I wish everyone could.  Jaime too._

Sansa still looks dubious.  "Even if that is the true, I fear you are going to be hurt," she says, simply.

"Maybe I am, my lady.  He is not an easy man, and our relationship will never be simple, but I take him as he comes".  Brienne steels herself, and looks directly into Sansa's hard blue eyes. "I love him, Sansa.  I have for years. Whatever happens between us, he is worth it."

Sansa lowers her gaze first. "The things we do for love" she replies softly, echoing the words her brother spoke at Jaime's impromptu trial. 

She releases her Brienne's arm and takes a step back. "Just be careful Brienne, for your sake, and ours."

And with that, she turns and leaves.

Brienne makes her way up the staircase, to Jaime.  She finds him still leaning on the battlements, but now staring listlessly over the remnants of the battlefield.  It's a barren, unappealing view.  The north's rugged aesthetics may have grown on her, but no view from Winterfell will ever compare to the sapphire waters of Tarth.

 _Well, nearly no view_.  In the distance, the two surviving dragons dance. 

Jaime smiles when he sees her approaching, his eyes warm, if cautious.  It makes her insides jump a little to be obviously desired.

“The Lady of Winterfell looked very earnest,” he says, as she approaches. “Warning you about my nefarious intentions, no doubt.”

She nods. “Lady Sansa has good reason to be suspicious of men.”

It will always be something of a sore spot between them, the fate of the Stark girls and Lady Catelyn.  Jaime was of course not have been personally involved in the disgrace that was the Red Wedding, but the machinations of his family set it in place and brought ruin to so many.  Still, Sansa appears to have no particular grudge toward Tyrion, at least, and Jaime has done everything he can to right those wrongs.

Still, he looks uncomfortable, and turns back to look at the dragons. 

“Have you noticed they have holes in their wings?” he asks her, gesturing to the looming creatures. “I’m no expert, but I am fairly certain they are not meant to have holes in their wings…”

“I’m sure they are not” Brienne agrees. She settles herself next to him, leaning over the battlements.  “But battered wings and tired soldiers are not enough to make the Dragon Queen stay.  She wants to leave soon. Probably for Dragonstone.”

Jaime nods.  “And then on to Kings Landing.” 

It’s a statement, not a question.  She doesn’t need to confirm it.

“Sansa is playing for time, but I don’t think she’ll prevail.”

Brienne watches Jaime's face as she tells him this, searching for a reaction.  He clearly knows he’s being scrutinised, and turns to look at her, not bothering to hide the doubt and worry playing across his face.  The inevitable war with his sister is a gathering storm on the horizon of their pairing – whether it will invigorate or destroy them, she doesn't know.

“I didn’t come here to fight Cersei,” he says finally, his voice steady but determined. 

“I know that," Brienne replies gently.  "I don’t think anyone would ask it of you.”

He snorts.  “Don’t you?”

“No one is suggesting you come south-” she begins.

“- because no thinks I can be trusted to do so,” he finishes.

Brienne looks away.  That much is undoubtedly true, but he can hardly be surprised by it.  His bond with his sister, the sordid details of it, are infamous across the breadth of Westeros.  That he has never resiled from his duty to his family and house is less well known, but equally relevant.

She offers him what she hopes is the good news.  “Jaime, I’m not going to fight Cersei either.”

He starts, clearly surprised. “What?”

“I am sworn to Lady Sansa.  She has requested that I stay here, with her.  I … well, I will do my duty.” 

Brienne would of course do her duty no matter what.  But it helps that her duty is, in this case, both honourable and convenient.  She doesn't want to leave Jaime. She's grateful to Sansa for permitting her service in this manner, even if her lady did not truly intend it to be a boon.

After a moment of contemplation, Jaime says “of course.”  His expression is inscrutable. 

Brienne continues cautiously.  “She has extended an offer to you to stay here, as well. As her guest.”

“Her ‘guest’?” Jaime draws the second word out, and she supposes he’s running the possibilities through his mind. “That's the highborn euphemism for ‘prisoner’.”

“Imprisonment is hardly a novel state for you,” she quips hoping to lighten the increasingly dour mood, but she's not Tyrion, and the joke falls a bit flat.

"Yes, it would now seem I have been imprisoned everywhere from Dorne to Winterfell.  How amusing,” he drawls. 

Brienne sighs.  She is not going to lie to him and pretend Sansa’s offer is something it is not, but there is more to it than captivity.

"You won't be a prisoner, Jaime.  You aren't now, either.  But people are concerned about your intentions.  You are hardly inconspicuous.  If you were to break for the south..." 

"People?  Which people are concerned, exactly?" His voice is strangely toneless, as if he is holding himself in check.

Brienne feels suddenly very nervous. Who indeed? This was not a conversation she was expecting to have.  She's always been an upfront person, given to stating things plainly, and the innuendos and half-truths of the games being played in Winterfell are often beyond her.  Jaime is much better at those games, more aware of them, and she doesn't want to mislead him or upset him with her ignorance.

"I...well, certainly Lady Sansa.  I suppose she speaks for Lord Snow,"  Brienne begins.  Then she decides to be honest. "And I'm concerned too".  It's almost a whisper.

Jaime's face softens immediately.  "Brienne..."

But Brienne cuts him off quickly.  “Lady Sansa is trying to help, in her own way.  She knows that you’re … we’re,” she struggles with the words. What are to each other anyway?  Finally, she settles on “she knows you’re part of my life.  And she knows that if I am to stay here I want you to have that option too.  If you want to.  Stay here, that is.”

There, she's made the offer.  Jaime stares at her.  There is a flash of something across his face – fear, maybe? Her stomach clenches.  She wonders if she has overstepped the bounds of their partnership, assumed to much.  But whatever the mysterious emotion is – was – it is gone now, completely replaced with something that looks very much like joy.  Jaime gives her a rare, wide smile that, unusually, reaches his eyes.   _There are so many lines around them now_. He looks so pleased, she wonders if maybe she just imagined seeing something less pleasant a bare moment before.

“Ser Brienne,” he asks teasingly. “Is this your way of asking me to stay and help keep you warm through the cold northern winter?”

“Yes,” she answers simply. “With the help of my diligently and responsibility cared for fire."

He laughs, and its beautiful.

She’d like to kiss him, then and there, and show him just how genuine the offer is, but she’s suddenly acutely aware of the many people watching them – the smallfolk in the courtyard below, the northern guards further down the wall, Grey Worm in the watchtower, with his intense thousand yard stare. Of course they are all keeping an eye on him, the Bad Lannister Brother, the would-be traitor in their midst.

So instead she settles for gently taking his good hand, and giving it a squeeze. "You don't need to decide now..."  she begins.

"I do," he interrupts her. "I already have. I hate the north, and I can't pretend otherwise.  But I don't want this," he indicates between them "to change.  I will be with you, and if that's here, so be it."

She smiles too now, only realising how nervous she had been.  "Thank you.  I'm glad."

But, really,  _glad_  doesn't begin to describe it.

Jaime squeezes her hand, and looks at her with an earnestness and sincerity she can barely comprehend.  "No, Brienne, thank you.  I…. Just, thank you."

Something profound passes between them, and they stand there like that for a moment, oblivious to the curious stares of their observers.  Then Jaime gives her that Lannister grin.  "Maybe the north will grow on me" he muses causally. "Like fungus, or a weed."

"I think you'll find even they don't grow here," she responds.

He looks her up and down, not a little lasciviously, "I've got a few hours.  Shall we go back to  _our_ chambers then, and celebrate?"

"I'm sure Sansa will arrange rooms for you, if only for proprieties' sake.  But, yes, I would never much like to go someplace more private.  Now."

He gestures at her to lead the way.

... 

 

Later that evening, Jaime takes his leave to spend some time with Tyrion.  The brothers will be parted again, soon, when Danearys’ army heads south.  Jaime tells her that, having only just reconnected with his brother, he is dreading another separation.   Word among the men is that there is a tavern with passable ale just outside the walls, and he and Tyrion intend to drink it dry.  She demurs at his invitation to join them.  Not only does she not want to intrude, but she is not much of a drinker.   _Although I am not likely to ever forget the last time I indulged._ Her father raised her to abstain from anything but weak beer and watered wine, and looked upon an excess of anything as a failing of character.  The Lannister brothers, by contrast, are like to swim in alcohol.  She frowns at the thought.  She doesn’t recall Jaime being like this before, even at Kings Landing, even after that awful farce of a wedding.  _Though Tyrion was, maybe_. She wonders whether she should be concerned.

After dinner, the brothers gone, Ser Davos had extended his usual offer to join him for gaming and drink, but she declinef that invitation, too.  The Onion Knight is always unfailingly polite and kind to her, but she remains cautious.   _He knew about Renly, and the darkness that took him._ She cannot erase that from her mind.Similarly, she declined Pod's invitation to catch up, well aware that a young tailoress, with huge grey eyes and a mass of curls, was hoping for some time with him.

Instead, Brienne busies herself in her chambers.  She cleans and services her armour.  She darns a hole in her doublet with neat little seams that would make her septa proud.  She tidies her quarters, removes tankards and cups left by Jaime that day and stokes the fire. 

She then sits down to write the long-promised scroll to her father.  She reassures him that she is well, that they have been victorious, and that she has, at long last, been made a knight.  She ponders whether to write of Jaime, if only to say it was he that knighted her and to lay the groundwork for a better introduction.  She sets the idea aside as quickly as it forms.  Her father would know little of him, save the most salacious of rumours and his title as  _kingslayer_ , and any inquiries he undertakes likely will make matters worse.    So Brienne simply adds simply that she is happy, and wishes him well.

Then, standing in her now empty-seeming quarters, she wonders how she spent her time a mere week before, when she didn’t have a lover. 

A _lover._

The word makes her spine tingle and heat rush to her groin, a word she never expected to use about her own affairs.  She’s not sure it really describes them.  _Lovers_ brings to mind young couples from troubadour ballads, or a wife secretly taking a stranger to her marriage bed, neither of which are anything like her and Jaime. 

The merchants and yeoman on Tarth have another word, another practice - courting.  Their children marry for love, or convenience, and they spend time together 'courting' to see if they are compatible.  Sometimes they even await a pregnancy.  _Are Jaime and I courting then?_ She wonders.  But as soon as she thinks it, it seems absurd.

She had longed for romance and marriage as a girl; yearned for it as one can only yearn for something truly impossible.  Truth be told, she's longed for it as a woman too, even fantasied at length. First, ridiculously, she'd imagined Renly draping a stag cloak around her huge shoulders.  It would have looked ridiculous.  But by the time she'd daydreamed through Joffrey's wedding, the cloak she imagined bore a lion.  That was years ago, and they are such different people now, and she had thought those dreams have long since faded. _But despite everything, I would still say ‘yes’ if he asked, no matter the danger._

_..._

Brienne’s abed when, in the small hours of the morning, Jaime finally knocks on the door.  His usual habit is to wait for her to open it before barging right on in. When she opens the door this time, she finds him leaning, drunkenly against the outside wall.  It’s much like that first wonderful night, only something is clearly very wrong. His eyes are red and his gait, after he pushes himself to something vaguely upright, is, startlingly unsteady.

"Jaime?" she asks, cautiously.

He gazes at her, eyes unfocused, and then staggers toward her. 

“Sorry,” he slurs, as she catches him under one arm. “I shouldn’t have come to you, not like this, but I don’t want to be alone. I need you.”  He's rambling, running words together. 

“You’re drunk” she says, trying her best to sound unimpressed, but still almost pathetically happy that he wants to be with her. Then, softly, “but, I suppose it did work for you the last time..."

He laughs, a harsh, self-mocking sound. “Drunk, yes, but not nearly enough.” 

Wondering at what has happened, she leads him, swaying, to the bed, helps him down and sits down beside him.  

“Jaime, what’s wrong?"

He drops his head to his hands, and doesn't answer immediately. .

Finally, he says: "Cersei.  Always Cersei."

“Cersei?”  Brienne repeats, feeling immediately hurt, not yet understanding.

And then she feels a ripple of fear run through her.  She wonders if it is the baby, the child of his seed growing in the queen’s womb.  She had been so hurt when she had heard of it, so unjustifiably and inexplicably betrayed, and even now the thought of Cersei bearing his child makes Brienne sick with jealousy and guilt.  But to think of baby – Jaime’s baby – in peril is a new kind of agony. 

“Have you had a raven, is there news from Kings Landing?” she asks.

But Jaime shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.  She sent a message, but not by raven.”  He laughs again, a drunken, half crazed chortle. “She sent a sell sword. Apparently to kill me, and Tyrion too. I think … I think she actually does want us dead.”

Jaime is clearly trying to sound angry, or indignant, but his voice cracks as he speaks, and the final word - ‘dead’ - is swallowed by something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

“Oh,  Jaime…”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, he looks so lost and bereft that Brienne can think of nothing to do but hold him. She wraps her arms around him, and buries her face in his hair.  He is soaking wet, shaking with cold, and smells of drink and smoke and horse and sweat.  He wraps his own arms around hers, and they stay like that for some time.

Later she undresses him and helps him wash.  The cold water makes the hairs on his skin stand on end, but if he is uncomfortable he endures it in silence.  Clean, and naked, he climbs into bed and she pulls the bedclothes over him. 

“I’m so sorry, Brienne”, he says, softly. 

She shakes his head. “There is nothing to apologise for. But I need to know - are we in danger?” 

“Not from Bronn,” he answers. “Tyrion fixed it.  Don’t worry.”

But how can she not?

Brienne waits still Jaime’s breathing grows steady, then quickly stands and sets to work washing his clothes and laying them out to dry by the fire.  It’s oddly domestic, the kind of comfortable familiarity that she imagines is typical of married people, albeit tainted in their case by loss and sadness.  And, of course, Cersei.

Eventually, Brienne strips to her shift and climbs in next to Jaime.  She had assumed he was asleep, but he rolls over and pulls her close, gripping her with a desperate despair.  A stream of sleep-garbled mutterings fall from his mouth, mainly drunken and inaudible, except for a very clear “help me.” _I’m trying, Jaime_ , she thinks.  She coos to him softly, like she would a small puppy, and holds him against her until they both drift into an uneasy torpor.

Later, in the frigid dark of early morning, Jaime rolls onto her.  He traces his fingers up her thigh, and pushes up her shift.  Although barely awake, she parts her legs to welcome him, and he slides into her. She’s not quite ready, and it’s not immediately pleasurable, but his obvious need fills her with a rapture equal to any provided by his cock.  They lie together for countless minutes, Jaime buried deep inside her, their chests heaving, his weight pushing her onto the bed and his breath on her neck.  Finally, her body grows accustomed to him and wet with want.  He must feel it, because he starts to move.  He is silent and slow, seeking connection rather than release.  She indulges him, forgoes chasing her own release to let him take his time with his.  She runs her hands down his back, over his buttocks.  She squeezes his shaft and rocks gently against him.  He moans his appreciation, grips her right hip, and pushes in deeply as he begins to shake. Sensing his need for their continued connection, Brienne locks her legs around his waist and holds him in place as he jerkily climaxes, spilling within her. Shuddering, he stays inside her, even as he softens, spent.  She strokes his back and kisses his ear and tries to ignore the tears that dampen her shoulder.

... 

The next day, she suggests they go riding.

Jaime, hungover and in pain, is incredulous, but she’s insistent. “The fresh air will do you good," she assures him.

The stable hands have a different view, throwing amused and bewildered looks in their direction as they prepare their mounts at the stables. 

“Your funeral” says one, as he saddles Jaime’s palfrey. 

Clearly, sane people do not ride for pleasure in a Northern winter, and that goes doubly for displaced southerners. 

They set off at a trot.  It’s freezing, the horses’ breath leaving clouds of steam in the air, but it’s good to be outside the walls of Winterfell, away from piles of debris and the scent of soot and death. 

Jaime grumbles about the cold, but he's clearly amused, and his mood lightens as they leave the castle behind. 

“I gather we’re out here for more than the fresh air?” he asks.

Brienne nods.  “I wanted to show you that you are not imprisoned.  But also, yes, sometimes I wonder whether those walls have ears.”

“I’ve lived in castles long enough to know that they do.  So, my lady, what did you want to talk about that leads us out here on this fine, blizzardy morning?”

Brienne takes a deep breath.  This _talking_ is not easy for her, and her topic of choice will probably ruin his surprisingly good mood.  She’s been running through what to say all morning.  In the end, having rejected the other options, she chooses her usual bluntness.

"I thought you'd like to talk about last night.  About, Cersei."

He grimaces and grips his reigns tightly. "I really don't."

Last night still looms large in their minds, and she can tell he’s faintly embarrassed by his behaviour.  She wishes he wasn't, that he would feel comfortable to share more of his life, but she’s afraid if she pushes too hard, he’ll only retreat from her further. 

Still, however uncomfortable, there are some things that have to be dealt with.

"Jaime, she sent someone to kill you."

He sighs, resignedly.  "Bronn, yes.  But now I think about it, I'm not convinced she was serious. Cersei is many things, but she is not an idiot.  She knows Bronn wouldn't just kill us outright.  He knows Tyrion well enough to have a go at negotiating a better deal, which is what he did, very successfully.  She is sending me a message, Brienne.  That she knows where I am, that she can hurt me if she wants, but that she has chosen not to."

Brienne frowns. It seems a convoluted way to pass on a message. “Are you sure you’re not making excuses for her?” 

To his credit, he at least thinks about his answer. “Yes.  I don't know.”

They continue to ride in silence for a while, each lost in thought.  Brienne leads, carefully picking a path through the snow and the brambles as they skirt the forest.  The wind is picking up, flurries dance across the powdery snow.  They will not be able to stay out for longer.

Finally, Brienne broaches the subject again, albeit from a slightly different front.

“Half Westeros is at war with your sister Jaime.  I know you don't want to fight her her, but you can’t not take sides.”  
  
“Can’t I?”  He asks. “I had rather hoped the war would peter out before I really had to think about it.”  
  
Brienne exhales a long breath, visible as a cloud of steam in the cold.  “You know that won’t happen.”  
  
At that, Jaime mutters something unintelligible and pulls his horse to a stop.  Brienne halts hers, slightly ahead, and turns to look at him.

“What do you want from me, Brienne?" He asks. "Why are we here?  I told you before, I came here to fight the dead, not Cersei.  I can’t and I won’t fight Cersei.  And I certainly won’t help you pull her down and put some crazed Targaryen in her place instead.  From everything I’ve seen, she’s too much like her father.”

Jaime’s voice has risen to a fever pitch, and Brienne looks around cautiously, wondering how far it will carry.  In the distance she hears ravens cawing, but thankfully the trails appear deserted of men.

“This is why we came out riding to have this conversation," she says pointedly.

The corner of his mouth turns up. "Brienne, you are not quite as naive about politics as I feared."

"Says the man who thinks he can outrun a war," she ripostes.  

"That's not naivety, that’s avoidance.” 

Jaime maneuvers his horse closer to her, close enough to drop his voice to a low rumble. “You are a good person, Brienne, a kind person with high ideals, who thinks well of people, despite all that you have seen.  You assume others are the same as you, but people like you are very rare."

“And what is the alternative way to view the world?” she asks in a harsh whisper. “Through a lens of cynicism and nihilism, like all those sophisticates at Kings Landing?  To assume the worst of people, close your eyes to the possibilities and resign yourself to cruelty and tyranny?”

He laughs at that, a harsh bark that causes his mount to skit nervously to one side. 

“Cruelty and tyranny?  Is that what the Targaryan girl is calling kingship now, is it?  Or just Cersei's take on it? The irony is delightful."

"Tyrion believes -"

"Tyrion's head is so far up his arse he can eat and shit through the same hole."  Jaime groans, rolls his eyes at the sky. "Tell me, Ser Brienne, do you honestly think the small folk even care who sits on that throne?  Whether that person has blond hair or white, purple eyes or green?  They just want safe roads and good weather and food in their bellies and to otherwise be left alone.  And do you know what interferes with those wants?  War. And currently that war is against Cersei.  So it's not Cersei who is fucking up their lives, it’s the constant stream of people trying to fuck up hers.  All in the name of trying to make the world a better place.  Better for who?”

Bienne stares at him in disbelief. “You’re not seriously suggesting she’s a good queen?”

“No, I’m not suggesting she's a good Queen.  I'm saying that she is no worse than most others, and better than some, including at least three out of four of her immediate predecessors, and probably Tommen too!”

He stumbles over the final words, pain evident in every one of them.  They stand in silence for a moment, horses pawing the dirt as the snow falls around them.  Jaime is breathing hard, distress written in the lines of his careworn face. 

 _I should stop, let this go, but if I do I will never have the courage to ask again._  
  
“Jaime, she destroyed the Sept of Baelor.  Killed all those people.”  
  
Jaime makes a disgusted noise.  She can see the conflict play across his face.  His good hand grips the reigns so tightly, the leather buckles and his horse whinnies and flits. 

“You’re right” he says finally, as if coming to terms with it himself. “She told me it was an accident, but you’re right, she blew it up.  But there were mitigating factors. And she paid the ultimate price for it."

“Mitigating factors?” Even to her own ears, Brienne’s voice sounds unnaturally high. “What could mitigate that kind of mass murder?”

“Mass murder? I think you’ll find my dear sister just called it war.”

“War is for warriors on battlefields,” Brienne says firmly.  “It’s not the same.”

He snorts. His voice is a cold whisper. “Isn’t it? Really? How is it different, precisely?  The High Sparrow, the Tyrells, the other simpering ‘great folk’.  Kings Landing, the Sept, that was their battlefield.  Do you know why they were there that morning?  They were gathered to watch and enjoy Loras Tyrell's bloody mutilation and my sister’s further humiliation. As if parading her naked through the streets was not enough!  Every person there was against her, waging their own little war of words and intrigues.  Especially the bloody High Sparrow.  Did you know that he kept Cersei and Margaery and gods knows who else locked up for months, with no light and minimal food, stewing in their own waste?  And the reason? To humiliate them.  To control them.  Did you know that he planned to march Margaery naked through the streets too?  I put a stop to that.  Did you know that he had a pack of perverted little septas who loved to peer and feel between maidens’ legs to check their ‘purity’? Who tortured prisoners into admitting to their own frenzied imaginings? The High Sparrow was a sick fuck who thought he could play against Cersei and lost.  A sick fuck who tried to break up our family, who captured Tommen, who was good, and kind, and honourable, and abused him and misused him and took him away from us! So, Brienne, forgive me if I don’t really care that Cersei blew up his fucking sept!”

Brienne has no response, finds she can only gape at Jaime.  She's stunned and terrified by the man before her, a dangerous man, a man she suddenly feels she barely recognises.   Silence falls between them, heavy and terrifying, and she feels as if the ground beneath her is to open, and pull her in.

'Fuck!'  Jaime gives a cry of what sounds like agony, looks desperately at the sky as if searching for some kind of answer written in the heavens. Then his head falls to his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chants, taking in deep breathes. “That went too far. But that's what I do, Brienne. I’ve spent so long making excuses for her, trying to justify what she does, what I do, even to myself, that half the time I can no longer trust myself to tell truth from tale, right from wrong.   Most of the time, when I am with her, I don’t even try.  It's so much easier to just not try..."

Brienne sighs, and wipes her hand across her face.  Her chest feels tight and her hands are shaking. She reaches out to touch his leg, and he almost recoils from her touch.  She does not want to hear this, but also knows that she must bear it. If she is to truly know and love Jaime, she must learn it all.

"Tell me about her, Jaime.  Cersei.  She means so much to you, and I don't know why.  I don't know how it can be that someone like you can love someone like her. I want to understand.  Help me understand."

After a moment he nods, beckons to her to ride with him.  He is a man of action, and it is easier for him, she thinks, if he is in motion.  She guides her horse to his, their thighs almost touching.  

"She has always been _my_ queen," Jaime begins softly. "But she has not always been  _this_ queen, the one that sits on that Iron Throne.  She was never innocent.  Never kind, like you are.  But she was brave, and clever, witty and beautiful and there was so much life in her.  

"When we were young, I was in awe of her.  Nearly everything she did, she did better than me.  I was still struggling to write my name while she was translating high Valyrian. She could understand father’s accounts before I could count to twenty.  She could ride like the wind and swim for miles and sweet talk treats out of the cook and stories out of the maesters. I was good at tourneys and waving a sword, but she was good at everything else, everything that really mattered, or should have mattered.  And yet, father never seemed to notice her, other than to sometimes comment on her beauty.  No matter how she excelled, no matter how like him she was, I was always the favourite, the heir.  She grew bitter, never at me, but at father and the world. A world that said her only value was what was between her legs. The bitterness twisted and tore at her, I think. It left her heart in tatters before she'd even finished growing.

"She formed this idea that we were one person, split in two parts.  But not equal parts.  I was the cock and brawn that was stolen from her.  Without me, she would have been perfect, a man for all seasons.  That's what she said, and I believed her - what else could we be, born of one seed, one womb?  She said if we stayed together, we could do anything, and I believed that too. I never wanted to leave her.

"She wanted us to be together, as one, all parts of us.  I'll spare you the details.  Mother said we reached for each other in the crib, and then it was always just us, always together.  She chose us, the only choice she was able to make. It seemed natural and right.  I never so much as looked at another girl, never even another woman. Until you."

She glances at him, but his eyes are fixed sightlessly ahead.     
  
"But we grew up, and father decided Cersei should be bartered about like some prize broodmare.  It was a big game.  Who got to fuck Cersei.  No one bothered to ask her.  Well, the game finished, and she ended up with Robert.  He wasn’t her first choice, but she dealt with it. She didn’t shirk her responsibilities, as I so often did.  It probably helped that he was young, and fit, and occasionally sober then. And, of course, the king. She tried to love him, she really did.  But he didn’t want her.  So the most beautiful woman in Westeros was sold to some drunken leech who treated her as an unworthy cast-off.

"He hurt her too.  From their first night. Shoved himself into her with no pretense or preparation, and called for Lyanna.  I wasn’t on duty that night, or I would have killed him at the sound of her cries.  I'd already killed one king, why not another?  He must have feared I'd do it to, as he made sure I was never on duty when he raped her.  Made sure I was always there when he was insulting her by cavorting in rooms full of painted whores though. It was a miserable life, for my beautiful sister.  
  
"So yes, she came back to me, for comfort, and compassion, and I welcomed her. Despite my vows, and hers. It was treason, but I didn’t care. If I could make some of the her pain go away, erase the nightmares of her time with Robert, then I would, and to hell with anyone who tried to stop us.  I know it sickens and disgusts people, probably even you, but I am not sorry for it.  I can’t be".

Brienne looks down to her hands, where they clutch the reigns.  It does sicken her, she can't pretend otherwise.  But she can, and will, try to understand.   
  
“And so it went on, until finally she was free of him. Stark put about the rumour that she murdered Robert. She probably did, although god knows how she directed the boar.  But good for her. Does that shock you, that I, a kingsguard, would think that?  A second king dies under my watch, and I didn’t fucking care.  I was just glad that Cersei was free of the filthy prick. 

"I thought, maybe we could be together. Not officially, of course,  I had my vows and the people would never have it.  And there were the children to think of, Cersei would never do anything to put them in danger.  But as a widow, at least she would not be subject to nightly tortures, to abuse and contempt from a whore master husband.  Only, then father engineered another marriage for her, a match as bad as Robert, but to a much poorer groom.  She was to be shipped off, again, to open her legs for stranger.  To be separated from her children.  It was insulting and degrading. But that was father, with his allegiances and his plots.  If he was still alive, he’d probably be insisting Cersei marry one of those dragons."

Brienne closes her eyes and swallows. She doesn't know what to make of the story, or the growing sense of sympathy she has for Cersei, a woman she knows is a monster.  “Her position was no different to that of most high borne women.  I was just very lucky to have an understanding father. Law and custom gives us little control over our lives, yet most of us do not become what she has."  
  
Jaime nods.  "There is much injustice in the world, Brienne.  Perhaps the limited lives we allow women is one of the greatest.  But I cannot pretend to understand the lives of all women.  I can only try to understand Cersei.  She has spent her life fighting to have some kind of control.  It has made her hard and manipulative, but she worked with the weapons she was given, and she wielded them well. She has been excluded, underestimated, humiliated and paraded through the streets.  Yet every time she has come through stronger.  Every single time.  For her, the throne is about securing that power and control she has always lacked.  She doesn't want to change society, or break the wheel, or even make the world a better place.  She just wants to control her life, and look after her family, and this is the only way she knows how.  Unfortunately, she is now as obsessed with that bloody throne as every other would-be king, and, yes, it has made her a monster."

The last word is nearly a sob.

Brienne's hands are trembling and her chest is aching. _Oh Jamie, what has she done to you?_

He has lived his life so completely, for his father, his family, his sister. She wonders if he even knows how to live life for himself

He sighs.  "It did not have to be like this.  If Robert had tried to love her.  If Myrcella had been permitted to stay with her.  If father had not pressed remarriage.  If, if, if..."

Brienne swallows the lump in her throat.   _If any of that had happened, you might be with her, and not with me_.  She's horror struck at her selfishness.  

"Jaime, I know you feel responsible for her, but you are not your sister."

"Am I not?  We have been together so long, sometimes I wonder where she finishes and I start." 

Brienne reaches out for him then, leaning across to grasp his good hand where it holds the reigns. "I don't. Wonder.  To me, it is obvious."  

And it is. If only she could make him see it.

Jaime meets her eyes. "I don't deserve you."

"And Cersei doesn't deserve you.  But it's not about what we deserve.  What was it you told me years ago? You can't chose who you love?  I love you Jamie, and I will fight for you."

He closes his eyes at that, gives a long, shuddering sigh, and then opens them to meet her gaze again. His expression is filled with gratitude and adoration

"I love you too," he says, firmly, fervently. "Don't ever doubt that Brienne.  I love you, beyond words.  And I want you, desperately.  I have for years." 

"I know," she says quietly.  _I just wish I knew it was enough._

They sit in silence for a moment, beneath the falling snow, the only sound theirs horses' breathing and the distant sound of birds.  Then, Brienne looks at the sky. The clouds have darkened to an an ominous grey. The weather is changing. 

"Come on, let's go"  she says, giving his hand a final squeeze. "Maybe we can get back before the storm."  


	6. A History of Ashes - Jaime

Chapter six

Jaime

Brienne is gone when Jaime wakes.  It's the second time this week.  She's proving remarkably good at getting dressed and sneaking out while he is still asleep.  _People to see and places to be_ , he supposes.  _Unlike me_.

The bed still smells like her, like them.  He idly recalls the previous night’s endeavours.  It had been a leisurely fuck, long and hard and deep, until she’d groaned his name in that deep, husky voice and he’d surrendered to his own climax, the exquisite pleasure washing over him like waves beneath Casterly Rock. _Very poetic._ His cock gives a little jump at the memory. He moves his good hand down to his groin and gives himself an investigative stroke.  He’s already semi-hard.  He could probably get himself off again by recalling last night, but it seems a waste without Brienne there to share it.  _Or to watch it_.  He wonders if she’d like to watch him jerk off.  She certainly likes watching him spill.  He thinks he’d like to watch her.  _Maybe I’ll suggest it._ He can already picture her blushing when he does, telling him to piss off, and then slowly coming round to the idea.  Now the initial awkwardness has faded, she is becoming astonishing assertive about what she likes.  Grinning, Jaime buries his head in the pillow, inhales her scent – their scent – and then reluctantly gets up.

He stretches and prowls around the room naked, searching for his clothes, and then his hand.  When he finds them he gathers them up, stands before the fire, and contemplates what do next.  Brienne’s absence makes some things more difficult, chief among them getting dressed. It's a new problem.  For most of his life he has been surrounded by nameless and faceless men and women whose job it was to serve him and whose presence he had mainly taken for granted.  After he lost his hand he'd taken more care to engage discreet, reliable men; men with families to care for, strong links to Lannisport and no reason to gossip or demean him.  He'd been even more careful still after starting to lie openly with Cersei. But he had always had help.

He didn't have any such help here, and the thought of asking for assistance from one of the stern-faced Stark bannermen or their narrow-eyed wives made his skin crawl.  Since his arrival, he’d just made do.  He'd spent his first few days in a cell, unable to bath or change anyway, and after he was released he’d bunked down with Tyrion.  His brother had tied up his laces with merely a snide commentary about handless men and short people.  And then he had Brienne.  She’d stepped into the void, much as she had so many years ago on that dreadful journey to Harenhal and then the better one to King’s Landing.  He had felt some passing frustration about need her assistance, but she had been so matter of fact about it that he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed. Since then they had settled into a reassuring routine.  But when she wasn’t around, he struggled, and last time he left to face the day looking like he'd just returned from a night out drinking. 

With a resigned sigh, Jaime pre-ties what he can with his good hand and his teeth.  He then gets to pulling on the plain, rough grey breeches and shirt that Tyrion had found for him when he first arrived.  After a fortnight on the road, and several misadventures, his traveling clothes had been in need of repair.  He recalls, ruefully, that at King's Landing he had a room full of clothing to choose from, in white and gold and red. It was a magnificent collection, albeit on the impractical side, and quite wasted given he mainly wore a few favoured items.  It’s hard to believe he used to care about fashion at all.  But then, most of his wardrobe was Cersei's doing, obsessed as she was with looking the part. He can’t imagine Brienne ever choosing his clothes.  He wonders if she could even describe something that he wore.

He finishes getting dressed, awkwardly tying the remaining laces at his neck with hand and teeth.  He runs a hand through his short hair, but otherwise can't summon up any particular concern for his appearance. There is no one of any import left here to see him.  The would-be conquering army has gone south, the wildlings north or west or somewhere ( _not here, thank the Gods_ ), and most of the banners have scattered to their various castles.  Winterfell feels empty as he wanders the halls and wonders what to do with himself.

The northmen are generally a sour bunch, and the ones still left at Winterfell are the sourest of them all. Greybearded old men with frost bitten noses, dour women in their dull dresses, raggedy children with a seriousness that belies their years.  Winterfell has much of the muck and noise of Kings Landing, but none of its charm or colour.  Even the horses and the whores look dreary.   There is nothing joyful here, he thinks.  _Save, of course, for Brienne_.  Just ice and mud and grime.

There is plenty to be done, but none of it can Jaime easily do.  He has no carpentry or blacksmithing skills, has never held a hammer or a wrench, or any tool that isn’t a weapon really.  His lack of a second hand makes lifting and hauling things difficult, and a previous attempt at assistance resulted in him effectively being told to get out of the way by some scrawny bogfarmer.  He still bristles at that, the fingers of his good hand clenching at the thought of punching the arrogant snot in the face.  _But I didn’t, if only because Brienne would not have approved._

He isn't much good with numbers, or cataloguing stores, and his writing, poor even when using his right hand, is now reduced to a nearly incomprehensible scrawl.  He had offered to help train the bannermen, but the northmen are disdainful of him, and their womenfolk wary of letting him near their children.   _It’s as if they think dishonourable behaviour is contagious_.

He has attracted small group of older boys who are independent of their mothers’ scrutiny but not so old as to know anything about him beyond his notoriety – _the kingslayer! He killed a king!_  They clearly find him intriguing, but they are very green, easily distracted, and rarely train for long. He’s not sure he is really well suited to teaching, anyway. _Especially to teaching northerners who will grow up to want to kill me.  Or Cersei._

In short, he feels bloody useless. And, at without Tyrion, or even - Seven save him -  the Hound, he’s also rather lonely.

Brienne is busy most days, doing whatever it was that she does with Sansa.  It seems to mainly involve reading and writing letters and huddling in small gatherings with moody looking nobles.  A cynical person may conclude that they were engaged in some kind of conspiracy, perhaps against the Targaryan girl, but he finds it hard to believe that Brienne would be involved in that kind of thing.  She is too lacking in subtlety for a start.  Whatever they were up to, she doesn’t share the details with him.  It's a strange feeling, being on the outside, after so many years as adviser to a queen and Lord Commander.  But he can understand why Brienne is so reticent about keeping him informed.  She might trust him, but no one else does.  At least, if he knows nothing, they need not fear his apparently inevitable betrayal, and he can worry less about taking the fall for somebody else’s.

So Jaime spends his time sparring with who he can, picking up odd jobs when they arise, and wondering when Sansa will make good her promise to find him something useful to do.  He patrols the walls, wanders the towers – staying well clear of _that_ tower – and potters around the stables. 

It is only when he thinks he has exhausted every other nook and cranny of the fortress that he finally finds himself in the Winterfell library. 

Jaime has never been one for reading. Most of his least gratifying moments as Lord Commander involved straining to make out blurry, dancing letters on tiny scrolls, mentally taunted by charming memories of his repeated failures to master his letters, and the father’s harsh lessons.  He has long thought reading to most appropriate for maesters and old people, but he is fast becoming one of those old people he supposes he should give it a try. 

So Jaime browses the dark wood shelves, with their dusty scrolls and bound books.  The Starks appear to like farming and history - _of course they do_ , _how practical -_ but some of the histories do appear to be about the great families, including the Lannisters and the Targaryans. _How could they not? The great families are the history of Westeros_ , he thinks with some pride. 

Cautiously, Jaime pulls a relatively intact looking volume out and opens it.  It’s beautifully illuminated, and the script is sufficiently large that his eyes don’t water looking at it.  _Wardens of the Westerlands_ , it’s called.  His heart leaps at the small illustration of Casterly Rock in the border of the first page.  He runs his finger gently over it.  It has been so long since he has seen his childhood home. _I abandoned it long before I surrendered it to the unsullied._

Does he long to return? He searches his feelings, but can't find an answer. It has been nearly three decades since he made the decision to forsake his inheritance and titles to join the Kingsguard.   He’s not quite sure why did that now, other than, typically for him, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.  Cersei’s idea, really, as with so many of the ‘good ideas’ that guided his life. " _Is it a rock you want? Or me?_ " Of course he’d chosen her. 

_Although I hadn’t really wanted the rock, either._

He had been so young and idealistic then, had held to ludicrous dreams about what it meant to be a knight. He had wanted to  _be_ Ser Arthur Dane, and he’d been so arrogant that it had never crossed his mind that he couldn’t be.  But it hadn’t worked out like that. Those dreams were shattered at the foot of Iron Throne, when he slammed his sword into Aerys’ scrawny back.  _Would it have made a difference if I’d stabbed him in the front?_ No, now he thinks on it, his dreams were crushed long before that, crushed by listening to his sworn king rape his wife, torture his servants, burn men alive in front of the Court.  And what did Dane, and Selmy and all the others heroes do?  Fucking nothing. He’d already lost respect for the king, the kingship, most of the kingsguard, and nearly every other person of note in Kings Landing long before he slew his king.

He’d been little more than a child.

And what could fill the void that was left in his heart, his honour, in the dark days that followed, but family? Especially Cersei. Beautiful, warm Cersei, who welcomed him as she always had, and treated him as her hero.  She hadn't cared about his honour, and in her arms, neither did he. 

Jaime continues to stare at the book for a long moment, and then takes a seat at the desk, and starts to read.  He struggles with some of the archaic words, but is soon absorbed by the story of Lann the Clever, founder of his house. He stops only when it becomes too dark to read clearly, leans back in his chair.  Notwithstanding, _or maybe because of_ , his father’s endless lectures, he’d never truly appreciated any part of his family history before.  He’d taken the wealth for granted, the entitlement, the grovelling servants and toadying officials.  But the name, the legacy, his family’s role in shaping Westeros? None of it had really mattered to him.  Joffrey and Tommen likely never even knew it.

_But of course, they were Baratheons._

He thinks, unbidden, that if he has another child, a Lannister child, he will share that history with them.

 _But I do have another child_ , he remembers darkly.  _It's growing in Cersei's womb, in the far, warm south._

 _And I am as likely to teach that child history as I am to grow a new hand._  

The empty longing that ripples through him is undeniable, nearly unbearable. He wants the child, wants to take it and protect it, from the war, and the world, and even Cersei.  _But that child is Cersei’s alone_ , he reminds himself.  To think otherwise will lead to nothing but despair. 

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice breaks the gloomy silence of the library.

He looks around and smiles to welcome her.  She’s dressed in a casual tunic and breeches, rather than her armour. She must have finished whatever duties she had for the day, and come to find him.

She closes the door behind her and approaches him, putting a hand on his shoulder.  Then she leans down to kiss him behind his ear.  He feels the warmth trickle from her lips to his groin.  By now every soul in Winterfell knows that Ser Brienne has taken him to her bed, but she’s still reticent about showing affection outside their locked chambers. He relishes this. 

"I never thought of you as the studious type," she says, nodding at the book. 

"I'm not.  Well, I wasn’t.  But there’s not much else to do around here." 

He sounds sulky, even to his own ears, and cringes slightly. It’s already a bit of a sore point between them. Brienne, to her credit, lets it go.  She leans over and peers at the text. 

"Lann the Clever," she reads. 

"One of my ancestors, in the Age of Heroes, or so we Lannisters like to claim.  Too clever for me and too subtle for Cersei.  Tyrion's probably got a jot of him though."

Brienne runs her fingers over Jaime’s neck, massaging out the kinks.  "I remember hearing tales about him as a child. Apparently he stole the sun to make his hair and charmed the breeches off half of Westeros." 

She moves her hands up to Jaime's short locks, as if examining the colour.  His used to be golden, _fuck, it used to be long_ , but age and lack of sunlight has darkened it to a tarnished brown. 

“No doubt the second part at least is true,” he concedes. 

She lowers her lips to his ear again. Her ministrations are leaving him a little light-headed.

"Ser Brienne,” he says with a smile, “are you trying to seduce me? In a _library_?"

He puts an indignant tone in his voice, but flashes her a grin that indicates he very much hopes the answer is in the positive.  In answer, she shifts in front of him, wedging herself between his legs and the desk, albeit with some difficulty given her size.

"Why not?” she whispers. “It's the one place in Winterfell were we are least likely to be disturbed."

She leans down and she kisses him, and he eagerly reciprocates.

Her hands move down to his breeches and begin to undo the laces.  She must be confident that they are alone to do something so bold as that _here_.  Released from its bonds, his cock jumps to immediate attention, and she takes it in her strong hand.  Jaime gives a strangled gasp and glances back at the door. He can’t quite believe this is happening. 

“Alright faceless man, where’s Brienne of Tarth?  What have you done with her?”

She smiles.  “She’s right here.  And she’s been thinking about you all day.”

She turns around, and swiftly undoes her own breeches, dropping them over her shapely behind.  Then without further ado, she lowers herself gently onto his straining cock.

It’s a new angle, and a slightly unusual one, but it’s intense and pleasurable all the same.  They move slowly, Brienne rising and falling slightly as she rocks her hips and moves forwards and back.  He’s acutely aware of the risk of someone walking in or finding them, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. When he nears his peak, he gently pushes her off and spills himself on his hand.  Then he turns her around, pushes her onto the desk, opens her legs, and finishes her off with his mouth.

…

They make their way from the library to the Great Hall with barely inches between them.  While she doesn’t hold his hand, or his arm, there could be little doubt they are together.  He’s been promoted from a chair near the back of the hall to a chair next to Brienne at one of the higher tables.  It doesn’t improve the company, which ignores him, or the food, which is consistently brown, bland and of questionable providence.  He works his way through several pitchers of wine, vaguely aware of Brienne watching him disapprovingly. 

He’s long since given up trying to make conversation with the northerners, although he does _listen_ to them.  If he’s honest with himself, he is trying catch news from the south. No such news tonight, just comments about the weather, the wine and the whores. 

And then he hears, a sneering voice that becomes audible only as the others ambient sounds in the room drop. 

“…the Kingslayers whore!”

The speaker, a ferret-faced bannerman, is leaning over the tables, clearing sharing a joke with two wheezing companions, both of whom are giggling, with their eyes are on Brienne.  

Brienne freezes, like she’s been slapped, but Jaime is up and out of his chair before he can even think. Simultaneously the bannerman stumbles up, trying to get out of his chair, but Jaime closes the distance between them in seconds. 

“She’s a highborn lady, cur!  You will not slander her!”

He strikes the man with his golden hand. There is a crack, a spurt of blood, and the weasel stumbles backwards, gripping his broken nose.  He trips over his chair leg.  Jaime still doesn’t even think. Consumed by an indignant rage that had been simmering in his guts for days, he raises his hand to strike again. 

Someone catches his hand it from behind.  _Brienne._

“Jaime no!”

He pauses.  Her voice is firm but calm, and she’s holding with warm and strong hands.  It’s enough to break the rage. 

“Ser Jaime!  That is enough!” Lady Sansa this time.  Her voice much colder.  She is standing at the high stable, wearing a look that would freeze wildfire.  Jaime is aware of every person in the room turning their attention from him, to her, and then slowly back to him.

He takes a calming breath, and steps away from the cowering banner.  He notes with some satisfaction both the blood on his face, and the wet patch in his pants where the coward has soiled himself. 

He turns to face Sansa, “My apologies, my lady. He-”

“We all heard what he said, Ser Jaime.”

He feels Brienne stiffen beside him, her hand on his arm tightening. _Another humiliation._ He glances at her, and she releases his arm, and nods toward the door.  Grinding his teeth, he bows quickly to Sansa, “My lady”, and storms out of the hall.   _Nothing like a dramatic exit._

It’s some time later when Brienne finally returns to their chambers.

'If it is any consolation,’ she says, “Sansa told him that if he was ever rude to another woman at her table, she’d send him somewhere where she could be confident he would never again have to suffer the presence of one”.

Jaime laughs at that. He still struggles to reconcile the Lady of Winterfell with the quiet, sad-eyed girl whose happiness was sacrificed in a ill-fated marriage to his brother.  Still, she's earned his grudging respect. The rest of the north, however... 

He looks up at her from where he is sitting on the bed.  She looks tried, but proud. 

“They hate us here, Brienne.  Me mainly, but you too.”

She shakes her head.  “Not all of them.  Not Sansa.”

“But most.”

Slowly, she comes and sits next to him.  “I know you are not happy here, but I made a vow to Lady Sansa…”

He takes her hand gently.  He wishes he could both hold it and stoke it. “She would release you if you asked.”

“Maybe, but where would we go?”

 _Where indeed?_ “I hear Tarth is nice,” he offers.

She smiles, and sits down beside him. “It’s lovely, but the journey isn’t.”

“I don’t remember it being so bad.”

She looks at him curiously. “You’ve been to Tarth?”  She couldn’t have sounded more surprised it he’d claimed to have visited Old Valyria.

“Past it. On a ship.  I stared at it like a complete fool for maybe five minutes.  In my defence, that was about the closest I had been to you in so long…”

She smiles at that, and there is a wistful look in her eyes. “We can’t go to Tarth now, Jaime. Even if we could make it, we would bring the war with us, and I would never do that to my father or my people.  But maybe ... after…”

 _After._ Everything is always ' _after'._ After the war is over.  After we defeat our enemies. After this queen or that queen or somebody else is on the bloody throne and life will be roses and wine.

_How do you know there will be an after?_

He moves his hand from Brienne's, to the ties at her neck of her shirt.  He tentatively pulls one end.  Thankfully it releases. He gets to work on the rest of them, hoping to lose himself in the reveal of her expanses of creamy skin.  But she captures his face in both her hands, and raises his gaze from her chest to her eyes.

“You don’t need to defend my honour Jaime.  But thank you, I appreciate it.”

"I do need to", he affirms.  Then he shrugs. “Most useful thing I’ve done all week.”

Brienne leans in to him, curling her round his waist to pull him down on top of her. “I’m not so sure about that…”

She kisses him, and for a moment he can forget about everything - the cold, the war, his family, Cersei.

It's a good night to go slowly.  Their quick fuck in the library earlier that evening has relieved his of some of the urgency he usually feels to have her each night, so he takes his time, savours the experience.  He kisses every inch of her, her scarred neck, her pert breasts, smooth stomach and soft thighs, and finally her warm, wet cunt.  He loves the way her strong legs hold his head, as her hands clench in the his hair.  He loves, too, how vocal she is, crying his name -  _Jaime, just Jaime_ \- as she looses herself and comes. 

When she finishes she rolls them over, and reciprocates the experience.  He closes his eyes and tries not to spill himself as she kisses her way down his body - his chest, nipples, stomach and thigh.  She kisses, too, the worn and scared stump of his hand, running her tongue over it lovingly.  That alone almost makes him spurt. She kisses up his arm, down his chest, and traces the line of hair from his navel to his groin.  His cock is near bursting, and exquisite torture.

"Gods, Brienne,"  he gasps, hips thrusting helplessly into the air. 

She smiles and takes him gently in her hand.  He groans at the contact, thrusts into her hand instead.  He is so close.

Still holding his burning cock, she wiggles down to lie between his legs. She's red and flushed, and looks a little awkward and uncertain, but also quite pleased with herself and the effect she's having on him.  He's usually inside her by this point, pumping and searching for his release.

"Um..." she begins, hesitantly.  She licks her lips, sending a shocking wave of desire down to his feet.  

"Just, whatever you're comfortable with,"  Jaime groans. "Kiss it, stroke it.  You won't hurt me.  Just, do something..." "

She smiles, and then, gamely, licks him for balls to tip.  He yells at the shock and pleasure of it. "Fuck!"

She hesitates. "Is the alright?"

"Gods yes, keep going."

She licks him again, and again, and each time it feels like her tongue is dragging more and more blood into his already over-engorged member. 

"Brienne, I'm ...I'm going to..."

When she closes her lips around the tip of his cock, he explodes. He half sits up, tries to push her head away, but she holds fast, lips tightly around him  With a roar he's sure the whole castle can hear, he empties himself into her, again and again.  

He falls back to the bed with a boneless thud.  She releases his softening cock with a soft, wet 'pop' and rests her head on thigh. 

"I'm sorry...I...it all happened to fast" he begins.

"It's alright", she says softly, tentatively. "I wanted to ... taste you, take all of you."

He didn't think he could feel any better, but those words do it.  "Come here, my love," he says, pulling her up to lie on top of him.  They're both sweaty, and tired.  He strokes her softly as she starts to doze. 

“Brienne,” he asks softly, sometime later, as they are almost asleep. “Is there news from Kings Landing, that you can tell me?”

 _News of Cersei, of the child._ Something to feed that dark shadow that looms so threateningly over us. 

She stirs against him, and he can feel her breath on his chest, the slight hitch in it.“I expect they are at Dragonstone by now”, she says finally.

A part of him wishes he didn't know. 

…

That night, lying with Brienne in his arms, Jaime dreams of a baby.  Newborn and pink, squalling at the indignity of birth, it’s placed in his arms, and he cloaks it with Lannister gold.  He holds it close and promises to protect it.  And then its mother comes.  Her hands on him are warm and strong, and she takes the babe to breast.  The teat the babe suckles at is small and pert, and its eyes are blue as sapphires.

…

Jaime returns to the library the next day, and gingerly takes out another of the histories. _Scions of the Great Houses._ An unimaginative and hagiographic title if ever there was one. Who writes these things anyway?

He skips through the Baratheons and the Martells, the Boltons and the Greyjoys (G _reat?  Really?)_ and various others and finds the Lannisters. As well as Lann there is Loren Lannister, and Tommen II who lost the family sword, and many others.  All blonde and handsome. They had been kings once, in ancient times, then lords thereafter. Tricksters and warriors, good and bad and wise and foolish.  Every one of those men was dead, but their names lived on in history. 

Jaime thinks he understands, a little now, what the Night King has been trying to erase.

He remembers also, but with more reluctance, what his father had told him, all those years ago, as he gutted an animal in a tent: “ _It’s the family name that lives on.  It’s all that lives on.  Not your personal glory, not your honour, but family.”_

Tywin had always expected - no demanded - that sacrifices be made for family.  And Jaime had made them, too. For his father, for Tyrion, and especially for Cersei.  He remembers then, with a cold, dreadful guilt, that he’d kill his cousin for Cersei. Bashed his head in.  He can perfectly recall the feel of the boy's skull collapsing beneath the blow, hear the sucking and the wheezing of his dying gasps.  He’d been half-starved, half-mad, and near-convinced Cersei was dead or dying or being tortured when he'd done it, but none of that made it any better for poor Alton. He’s killed hundreds of men, but most of those were in battle, and it is this one that leaves him feeling nauseous, dirty, and foul. 

Alton, a lesser Lannister sacrificed for a greater one.  Pointlessly too.  _The family lives on._ Father had been almost proud. Cersei hadn't cared.

"I'm a Lannister.”  That's what he had told Brienne once, when she had assured him there was honour in him.  He'd said it as if 'Lannister' and 'honour' were mutually exclusive. And perhaps were they were, now. But these stories showed that was not always the case.   Lannisters had done honourable things.  _He_ had done honourable things.  He must have.  Brienne saw them, or she wouldn’t love him. _She’s naïve but not deluded._ Whycould he not think of any now?  All he could think of were the empty pages in that fucking White Book.

Brienne.  The honourable thing to do with Brienne would be the marry her, to make her a part of the family. Put an end to the slurs and insults like that one at dinner.  Brienne would certainly have made his father happy - a high-borne wife to get some heirs on. _It would make me happy, too_ , he thinks, to take Brienne as his wife.  To have her forever, as his. 

But to make her Lady Lannister?  That was less a gift than a curse.   _Lannister._ It's as much an insult here as  _Kingslayers Whore._ It will be like that everywhere if the Dragon Queen wins. Even if she doesn't, the present situation is not much better. He doesn't hold Casterly Rock, having sacrificed it for Cersei’s dream of queenship.  It’s possible it’s abandoned now, with the unsullied regiment marching on Kings Landing, but even if he could take advantage of that  – which he can’t, as he’s currently short an army - Cersei would never permit him to retire there with Brienne as his wife.  She may, perhaps, tolerate an arranged alliance with some boring girl from the provinces, but a love match with another warrior? And one so upstanding as Brienne? She would see that as the ultimate betrayal, a treason punishable by death.  Brienne would be dead, and any children they had, even more so. 

He supposes he could swallow all his pride, all his well-founded fears, and align with the Targaryan, help her take the throne and then beg for his castle and wardenship in return.  He wouldn’t be the first lord to do it.   And if she declined to give him Casterly Rock in his own right, maybe she would award it to his lady wife for her loyal and honourable service. _Her hand's already promised Bronn Highgarden._  And how would he feel about that? To hold his family lands in the right of his wife?

_Better than not holding them at all._

He pushes the idea aside as quickly as it forms.  _No_.  Whatever Cersei has become, whatever she may deserve, he will never barter his loyalty to her for a fucking castle.  His loyalty is not for sale at all.  On that point, at least, he can hold onto some vestige of his honour.

So, there will be no happy retirement to Casterly Rock.  Not with Cersei as queen, nor Danearys. The best he can hope for is that it goes to Tyrion, who would make a much better Lord Lannister than him anyway.  There can be no marriage either, not while he is a Lannister.  Again, he thinks that he should let Brienne go, leave her, hurt her to save her, and then go and find some dark hole in Essos or somewhere and drink himself to death.

But he can't do it.  He can't give her up.  And he can't erase Cersei either.

Despondently, he traces the illumination on the book.  

It’s suddenly too much. Too much loss, and grief, and guilt.  His honour is beyond repair. His family is disgraced, it home captured and its wealth squandered.  His parents are dead, his children are dead, his siblings are at war.  And here he is, hiding in a stranger's castle, surrounded by people who hate him, and with nothing to offer a woman he loves. How did his life come to this?  

Jaime drops his head to his hand -  _that's right, I lost one of those too_ - and, in the privacy of the Winterfell library, lets his tears fall.  They land on a page entitled _Lannister_.  

…

That evening, when he pulls out of her, there is blood on his cock.

“My courses,” Brienne explains hastily, floundering and embarrassed, flushing red from her toes to her her messy blonde hair.   

He supposes that proper girls don't talk about their courses with men. 

She wraps a fur around herself, and scrambles to find some cloths, to staunch her flow and clean him up.  Yet, despite her fluster she seems genuinely relieved.  Jaime smiles along with her, but inside he is dying.  It’s selfish, and stupid, but he realises now that he had been hoping that on the first fateful night, before they started being careful, he had gotten her with child.

 _Then she would have to stay_ , he thinks.   _And so would I._

She cleans herself and pulls on a shift, then returns to wash him.  He lies back and lets her, feeling the damp on his skin.  It reminds him of how gentle she had been with him at Harenhel.  Cersei was never gentle, not even with their children, and certainly not with him. 

Later, he lies in bed and holds her.  Her shift is an unwanted barrier between them, but she's unyielding when he tries to take it off.  He gives up, and stares sightlessly at the walls.  

Brienne takes his quietness for disappointment about the lack of sex.

“I only bleed rarely, and lightly,” she offers, cautiously.  “A couple of days, usually.  You can enjoy me again soon.”

“I don’t care about blood” he mumbles, kissing her under the ear. "I'll want you tomorrow, no matter what."

But that's only half true.  He does care about blood. 

All his dreams seem to end in it.


	7. The Old Gods - Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is where things begin to differ from canon, albeit only a little right now. I tried, I really did, but the 'canon' 804 departure scene (I won’t call it a breakup, because I don’t think that is what it was) was so poorly written and ambiguous that I simply can’t justify including it in this story. Instead, I am going to rewrite it into what I think Jaime was trying to say. It's the first step in what will be something of a fix it.  
> Please see notes below for further discussion re my approach to canon from here on in.

It is early evening when Brienne finds Jaime in the Godswood.  He is standing beneath the towering branches of the Weirwood tree, his arms by his side and his head down.   His good hand holds a carafe of something, and his golden hand gleams in the red rays of the setting sun. 

“You’re not coming to dinner?” she asks.  He wasn't at the noonbreak meal, either. She wonders if he has been avoiding everyone, or just her.

“Not hungry.”

She gestures to carafe in his hand. “But you're thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than she intends.  Even with his back to her, she knows he is rolling his eyes.  

“Not yet.”  He lifts up the bottle, revealing it to be largely full. “I had intended to be by now, but this stuff is truly dreadful.  Even by my now diminished standards.”

Brienne hesitates for a moment, and then walks to his side and looks at him.  He is haggard, even more than is usual these days, and his eyes are red and slightly glazed.  She can sense there is something wrong, but does not know what to do about it.  She bites her lip, pondering.  _I’ve never been very good at offering comfort.  Hard love and advice, maybe, but not comfort_.   She cautiously takes Jaime’s left hand, and after a moment, brings her hands together, to clasp his one hand in both of hers.  She is relieved to find he squeezes her right hand back.

The stand together in silence for a handful of breaths, and then Brienne follows his gaze to where it rests on the Weirwood Tree. It's so peaceful here, in the Godswood.  There is a sense of power and majesty about this place, as well as an undercurrent of something raw and primal.  The first men stood here, the ancestors of the Starks.  Sansa's ancestors. She and Jaime's families have been in Westeros for millennia, and yet standing in this grove, she feels displaced, a newcomer, a child. 

“It is very beautiful,” she murmurs. 

Jaime turns slightly to look at her, and says softly, “yes.” 

She blushes.  She still does that when he compliments her appearance.  She knows no disinterested person would find her beautiful, not in the same sense that they would Sansa or Cersei. But she doesn't doubt that Jaime means what he says, that he sees beauty in her, and it warms her when he tells her so. 

He raises his good hand, still clasped in hers, and beckons toward the tree.

“Come, sit with me.”

She blinks. "Here?"

"Why not?"  He asks.  They take a few steps closer to the tree.  He is still holding her hand as he folds himself down, a little awkwardly, beneath its branches  "As you said, it's beautiful here."

“Yes.  But it’s also getting cold.”

“Sit close then.” 

Jaime pulls out a fold of his cloak, inviting her to share it.  The look on his face suggests he'd like to share other things to.  She supposes it’s an improvement on the despondency of a minute ago. 

“There is no way I am shagging you beneath their sacred Weirwood tree,” she warns with a smile.

"Says the lady who ravished me in a library."  He gives her a mock offended look.  “Don't worry, my lady.  My intentions are completely honourable.  At least for the next couple of minutes.”

She rolls her eyes and lets him pull her down beside him.  The ground is wet and cold and she shuffles close to him, sharing the edge of his leather cloak as a kind of rug. Together, they gaze into the canopy of leaves, black shadows now against the dim orange and pink light of the setting sun.

They sit in silence for a little while, until finally, Brienne asks, “what’s wrong, Jaime?”

He shakes his head, seeming to struggle to find the words.  "I don't really know where to start..." he voice fades off.  She moves one her hands cautiously from his hand to his knee, and begins to gently draw invisible patterns on his breeches with her fingertips.  She doesn't press him.  He'll talk to her when he's ready.  Or he won't.

"I've been thinking about my family," he says eventually.  He must feel her stiffen, because he adds, "yes, about Cersei, and about our children.  My brother, my father, my uncle.  Even mother.  I have spent my entire life being drilled on how family is everything, all that matters. 'It it is the family name that lives on'.  Only the name will live on.  And I find myself reflecting that what father said is true. The people are nearly all gone, but our reputation remains. We have ensured the family name will live on, although not as father expected.  Meanwhile, nearly everyone is dead. I don't even know how I feel about that."  

Brienne nods, more to show she is listening than in understanding.  She continues her ministrations on his knee, extending them to include the adjoining thigh, hoping her fingers can coax him to talk.  He leans into her a little more, squeezes her other hand which is still in his. It's a comforting, quiet closeness, and she is pleased that he is willing to share this with her. 

“You've never told me about your mother," she says. It's a comment, but also a question.  An invitation to keep talking, sharing. 

"Haven't I?  I don't remember her that well, just images and emotions.  She was stern, but loving.  People, my Aunt Genna in particular, tell me she brought out the best in my father and certainly, he…he wasn’t the same after she died.  As the hand, or a father.  Cersei was very affected by mother's death too. Maybe more than me.  She blamed Tyrion for it.  Still does."

“Your father is said to have loved Joanna very much.  Even on Tarth, we heard of their love.”

“Yes, very much.  My father always spoke of honour and duty, but there was love too, between all of us.  Sometimes it was blinding. I know what our family’s reputation is, what we are, what we have done.  Some of the worst of that, we have justified to ourselves as being because of love.”

“You Lannisters are not so dissimilar to the Starks, in that way.  Sansa, Arya, Bran, even Jon.  They put family first.  The Starks, then the North, then the Kingdom. I don't think it is so unusual."

“Maybe.  But the Starks are not sleeping together.”

"No," she concedes. 

It still makes her uncomfortable, to think about what Jaime and Cersei did together _._  She wonders if she would be similarly uncomfortable if Cersei had just been any old former lover, and not his sister, or his queen.  What if she was a fellow courtier, or a milkmaid?  Great men were almost expected to take lovers, and the women married to them were expected to accept it.  She had been told by her septa that she would have no choice but to accept that.  _"Keep his spirits up and his stomach full, Brienne, for you will never please his eye"._ Jaime has only had one previous lover, though.  He has never visited a whore.  Surely that is not so bad as most, even if his one was his twin?

"I will always love Cersei," Jaime says then.  It's a statement, and a confession. 

“I know," Brienne replies.  And she means  it, knows it. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't love her. I'm not a fool, Jaime.  I listened to what you told me, on that ride.  And I meant what I said.  I know what you've done, what she means to you, that you may never stop loving her.  And I love you anyway."  

"And I love you." Jaime pulls her closer, kisses her cheek.  She doesn't doubt him.

 _It is nice,_ she thinks _, to just sit here and touch him like this._

“I was thinking of my children, today. It's ... difficult.” Jaime says simply, voice barely above whisper. “When you came here, I was remembering Joffrey's birth.  How I was there for it, and how that was probably the most fatherly thing I ever did for him. "

It takes Brienne a moment to understand.  Then she gasps.  "What?  You didn’t! A birthing chamber is no place for a man!”

“So I was told, but no force in this world could have kept me away from Cersei when she was in that much pain.  It was so … I can’t describe it.  There was agony and blood and Joffrey, true to form, refused to cooperate.  I feared she would die, I ... was so scared.  More so than I had ever been on the battlefield.  And then, in the end, there was a screaming, muck covered baby.  The midwives took it, and cleaned it, and gave it back to her.  I wanted to hold him - my son - but Cersei said no.  'No, Robert must hold him first', and then she repeated it forever after that.  She was firm that I was never to touch him, or go near him, lest anyone guess his parentage. Or lest someone just think I was jealous of Robert.  So I didn’t. I had to make sure I showed nothing around him,  _felt_ _nothing_.  And so he became, to me, nothing but a squirt of cum”. 

Brienne feels herself bristle at the words, her mind screaming that this is not how it should be.  

Jaime continues, "Joffrey was such a shit of a kid, really.  I can say that now, I see it.  I saw it.  I suppose I didn’t really want any part of that.  But Myrcella?  She was harder.  Tommen too, but particularly Myrcella.  She was so kind and gentle, and so desperate for affection, and Cersei was so focused on Joff. It was so much harder not to hold her.  She..." his voice cracks, and Brienne moves closer to him, wraps her arm around him tightly and holds him close.  "I failed her Brienne. She died in my arms.  Did I tell you that?  But at least she knew I was her father, she’d worked it out, and she told me she was glad."

There are tears on his face now.  

"Jaime..." Brienne breathes his name, unable to comprehend his pain, and without words to soothe it.

He looks up at the sky, trying to get a hold of himself.  "I was not a good father.  But, when I think back, I don’t know what else I could have done.  If Robert found out, we would all have been dead. I would have done anything to prevent that." Then, softly, "I did everything to prevent that.  Even the unthinkable."

 _Bran,_ she thinks _._ So much seems to come back to Bran. 

She longs to ask him if he would like another child.   _Another child, with me._ She had seen the look of sadness on his face, when she had bleed.   _But I cannot ask him now_ , she thinks.  This is not about us, or her, but about him.  He is lost, and she doesn't know how to find him.  

She longs, too, to tell him the news from the south.  That Cersei is looking as slim as ever, and that Euron Greyjoy has boasted to any man with the ears to listen that he has planted his own seed in her.  But she’s not sure how to tell Jaime this, or whether he would appreciate hearing it from her.  She doesn’t know whether the news would free him or destroy him. 

"I was thinking, too,” Jaime continues, ”what it would like to start over my life.  Stay away from Cersei. Stay away from the kingsguard.  Not kill Aerys.  Stay out of the Whispering Wood. Not lose my hand.  But then I think, if I did change something, those children, my children, would not have had lives at all."  He pauses to meet her eyes. "And I think, had I taken any other turn, I may never have met you, Ser Brienne.  I can't bear the thought of that."

Brienne feels a shiver of pleasure run down her spine, a cool salve to the burning pain of his confessions. 

"I can't imagine a world where I don't meet you, either," she whispers. 

He hugs her closer then, gripping her and holding her to him like he's drowning in darkness, and she is his light. "Gods Brienne, I don't know how I got you." 

She smiles and nuzzles his neck.  "If I recall correctly, by being placed in my custody, insulting me, making yourself a complete pain in my arse and then getting into a bath with me, uninvited and naked.  And let's not forget the ‘is it hot in here' line.  In hindsight, I cannot believe that worked."

He laughs. "Either can I.  Although you are missing quite a bit of the story.”

She grins, and he leans in and kisses her gently.  They deepen the kiss as the sun retreats and darkness falls. 

Finally, they break apart, breathless and swollen.  Jaime tilts his head back, and looks into the canopy of the tree. 

“The Starks, the northmen, they have traditionally worshiped these trees,” he says. 

Brienne frowns a little.  “Well, I don’t think that’s quite right.  I think they believe the trees, like animals, have souls and they seek guidance from them- ”

He cuts her off with a slightly frustrated snort. "Yes, yes, they believe every tree and rock has a spirit. I know.  We used to joke that Ned would talk to trees.”

Brienne nods  “A year or so ago, I would have said that to ask a tree for divine assistance was a sacrilege.  That the Seven were the true Gods of Seven Kingdom.  But the things I have seen, up here with the walkers, with the Red Woman. With Renly.  The war, the destruction, the suffering,"  she shrugs. "I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Jaime's reply is hard and brusque. “I know I don’t believe in the fucking seven.”

Brienne flinches.  As much as she had been harboring doubts, she has never thought to voice them quite so decisively.  

Jaime glances at her.  "I shock and disappointment you again, Ser Brienne?" he says resignedly.  

"No, not this time, Ser Jaime. I share your disillusionment.  But I am not convinced that the Old Gods provide any answers either.”  

“Oh, I don't suggest they do  But these trees are especially important.  Weirwood trees, with their faces.  They are meant to have some direct connection to the Old Gods.  This is where they worship.” He smiles and looks around. “So I suppose, my Lady, that means we are sitting in a sept.”

His fingers tightens slightly on hers as he says it, and his thumb rubs the back of her hand.  Her mind turns, immediately, to what couples holding hands do in septs, and she is glad it is dark, as she can feel the heat rise to her face.  Her stomach does a somersault. She wonders whether she is misreading him, whether her imagination is getting away from her.

"Yes, I suppose so," she whispers quietly.  

Brienne can hear Jaime draw a shaky breath.  Another moment passes between them, but neither she nor Jaime seem to quite being able to grasp it. 

She settles for something more direct.  "You do have a new chance for a new life, Jaime."

He is silent for a long time.  

"I don't have much to offer you, Brienne," he says finally. “Not now, anyway.  Maybe never.”   

“I don’t think that’s true at all” she answers, but the look on his face makes it clear he doesn’t believe her. “There’s no pressure, Jaime. We can take it day by day."

He stands then, and pulls her to her feet. "I can offer you this, although it is not in any way enough."   Some awkward gesturing, and he takes both her hands in his left and looks directly in her eyes. There’s desperation in his aspect, a burning anguish that makes her heart melt. He draws a deep breath. 

"I love you, Ser Brienne of Tarth" he says.  "I love your bravery, your wisdom, your courage.  I love your strong hands, and your kind heart, and the way you can beat down every man you meet. I love the way we come together, how tight you are, the sounds you make, the things you make me feel.  I love that you make me a better man, and, Gods Brienne, I want to be that better man for you.  I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you will have me, for truly I am not worthy.  Thank for for taking me as yours."

She stars at him for a long moment, shock mingling with delight. She's not sure she has the words to respond to that. "Well, for better or for worse, I will take what I can of you, Jaime Lannister" she says.  

Then she puts her hands on each side of his face, draws his lips to hers, and kisses him.

As tempting as it is, they don’t make love in the Godswood, a little because of their respect for the Old Gods, but mainly because it is dark and freezing, and neither want to add frostbite to their injuries.  When they get back to Brienne’s chambers, they more than make up for lost time.

Brienne undresses herself quickly, then peels of Jaime's clothing more slowly.  She enjoys the feel of him under her hands, and then her mouth.  His neck, his nipples, the muscles under his abdomen and the softer parts of his belly.  The fingers on his left hand, the stump on his right, and soft curve where his groin joins his leg.  He tastes of leather and salt and need.  He is already close, hard and hot, when she positions herself above him, and lowers herself onto his cock. She rides him gently, coaxing him to his release, as he explores her with his fingers, finding the sensitive nub between her legs.  She thrills at the intoxicating sounds of their bodies moving together, their grunts and moans, the slap of skin on skin, the wet sound of her cunt working his cock and his fingers in her slickness. She comes with a low, loud " _Gods yes_ ", tightening around him.  He stiffens, grabs her hip, and pushes her to get off him. _I'm c_ o _ming.  I can bear no more_.  But she refuses to leave him.  She rolls her hips and holds him down.  He arches his back, gives one last hard thrust and comes inside her with a strangled cry. 

She collapses onto his chest, giving his parted lips a kiss.  No doubt he can taste himself on her. She can feel him inside her, his softening cock and hot cum  They have been reckless, she thinks, but she finds she doesn't care.  She has accepted all of him, and all that entails, _come what may_.

Two days later, the raven arrives.

 ...

The raven carries news from Dragonstone.  About the worst imaginable.   

Daenerys' fleet was ambushed, Rhaegel killed and Missandei abducted.  Any chance of the war being delayed -  _petering out_ as he had hoped - is gone. And not only is the news bad, but it is delivered to Jaime in about the worst way possible.

Brienne has never been one for subtlety, but she had hoped to tell him in private.  Unfortunately, he sees her conversing with Sansa, follows them, and asks.  In that moment, Brienne is torn between her Lady and her lover.  She longs for a moment alone with Jaime, to talk and explain, but she is on duty when he confronts her, and she always does her duty.  She relays the contents of the message to him factually and with candor.  She is stunned, hurt, when Sansa adds an unexpected and unnecessarily gloss.  It's a cruelty, a much smaller one than Cersei's, but in its own way as harmful to him. 

Brienne watches Jaime’s face fall, from shock to fear. He must know, as much as anyone who has met the Dragon Queen, that Cersei can’t win, and that now she is doomed. He must feel, too, the hatred in Sansa's voice as she tells him this.  The hatred for Cersei, for Lannister armies, perhaps even for him. Her glee at the impending Lannister downfall, revenge for their ruination of her life. 

When he hears the news, Jaime stands straight and still for a moment, gathering what dignity his has, then nods, backs away, and leaves.

Brienne takes a step in his direction.  “Jaime!”  But he doesn't stop, or even hesitate. 

From the doorway, her lady calls to her firmly.  “Brienne.”

For the briefest of moments, Brienne contemplates choosing love above duty.  But Jaime is leaving her, is now passed the gate, and Sansa is still here.  She chooses duty, or a form of it.  She turns to Sansa, and pleads with her. 

"My lady, I .... I have to go to him.”

Sansa looks at her with narrowed eyes.  “Do you?  I think Ser Jaime needs to be alone."

Brienne bristles.  "With due respect, my Lady, you do not know him as I - "

"- Yes, that much is certain,"  Sansa cuts her off. "And that is why I wanted to see his reaction. He is upset."

“Of course he is, his sister her sealed her fate.. She will - ”

“ - she’s not just his sister, Brienne.  I am sure you know that.”

“Of course I know that!” 

Brienne has raised her voice, well above the level that is acceptable when addressing a lord.  A number of smallfolk look up and stare. She swallows, lowers her voice, collects herself.  “I apologise my lady.”

Sansa sighs.  The Lady of Winterful can be hard, and scheming, but only rarely cruel.  Her eyes are understanding, and sad.  “No, I apologise, Brienne.  I have upset you, perhaps unfairly.  I could have handled that better too.  Whatever I think of Jaime Lannister, you love him, and I should not have taken my frustration out on him, or you.  Very well, Brienne.  Go and find your tarnished knight, lest he do something stupid.”

She thanks Sansa, and hastily leaves.

It doesn't take her long to find Jaime.  He is in the tourney yard, attacking what is left of a mannequin, sword in left hand.  The ground is already littered with its spiky straw innards.  He must hear her approach, but for a long time, he doesn't say anything.  He just hacks at the dummy until there is nothing left to destroy. 

“Euron Fucking Greyjoy,” he says finally, kicking the scattered remains across the dusty ground. “The fucking idiot.  When she brought him on board, I should have known she’d lost it and left on the spot.”

Brienne can see the pain in his face, hear the betrayal in his voice. She has heard the rumours, and maybe he has too.  “Cersei and he.  Are they…?” She cannot quite finish the question.

Jaime snorts.  “What, fucking?  Probably.  He wasted no time in making his intentions known, and my sweet sister apparently thought it acceptable to trade favours for a fleet like some fucking whore.”

Some small, insecure part of Brienne cannot help but wonder how long Jaime has known of this, whether what she and he have now is a twisted way for him to get revenge.  She should let it go, she knows.  It is preposterous.  But the scars left by years of mockery are hard to erase, and the accusation tumbles from her mouth before she can stop it. 

"Is that why you’re here?  With me?  Revenge?"

Jaime couldn't look more surprised if she'd told him Daenerys had surrendered. 'What?!  No! No, no, no.”  He drops his sword, and comes to her.  In a few steps, his face changes from fear and  pain to hurt and indignation.  "After...everything, how could you even think that?"

She doesn't, not really.  Has no idea why she even said it.  "I don't think that,"  she says quickly. "Of course I don't.  I'm sorry." 

_But the damage is done.  How badly has she wounded him?_

Jaime closes his eyes and swallows.  “No, it is a fair question.  Euron was one of the final nails in the coffin, although not the last.  I had given up everything for her. Everything for us.  She had _promised_ that things would change, that we could be together.  And then she proved herself prepared to barter that away for a couple of ships and a quick fuck with a wanna be pirate.  I hope she thinks its worth her bloody life."  

She can see that he's breaking before her eyes.  She puts her hand on his shoulder.  His muscles are tense and tight, almost as if he is preparing for battle. 

He _will never be free of her._

"Are you going to be alright?" she asks. 

"No."

_Of course he is not._

"Can I do anything?"

"No."  He shakes his head.  "You've done enough, Brienne.  Thank you.  I just ... I just need time."  He gives her a half-smile, but his heart and eyes are not in it. "And a drink.  And to destroy the rest of these mannequins."

She nods, licks her lips, takes a breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach.  Something precious and invaluable is falling through her grasp.

"Alright.  I'll see you in the Great Hall at dinner.  We can talk tonight?"

He nods.  "Till then."  

 

..

 

That don’t talk at dinner, not really. He’s quiet, silent, and withdrawn, although at least he is there. 

The news has spread through the Winterfell, and the talk is now of nothing but war.  _Lannister.  Cersei._   _Dracareys._ The words flicker and flare through the room, burning them both. Eyes fall constantly on Jaime.

He has gone away inside. She is loosing him.

When they get to her chambers, he stands bewildered and passive, lost in thought.  She stands before him and takes his face in her hands. "I'm here Jaime. Be here with me." 

He wraps his arms around and pulls her to him, holds her like he is trying to make them one. They stand like that, absorbed in each other and trying not to think, as the fire burns low.  Then Brienne disentangles herself, steps back, and begins to remove her clothes. He watches her every move with dark, hooded eyes.  She comes to him naked, and already wanting and wet. "I need you" she whispers, as she gently draws his hand to her cleft. 

He brings her other hand up to pull at his laces, but he gently pushes it away with his stump.  "Let me taste you", he says.

He pushes her back to the bed, and lays atop her.  They've always been naked before, and his leather feels rough on her skin.  _A barrier, a wall._ She resents it.  Her mind reals, worry building in her stomach, but she pushes her fears aside.  _Enjoy this_ she tells herself.  And its not hard.  Her kisses her all over.  He worships her.  Touches every inch of her with are and reverence, avoiding where the really wants him until the very last.  When he touches his mouth to her core, she screams.  She raises her legs, opens herself to him and buries her hands in his hair. It's wonderful and powerful. Even as she knows,  _in her heart,_ it’s goodbye.  

...

 

"They're going to burn that city to the ground." 

He is in the courtyard, awkwardly tightening the girth on his horse, when she finds him.  

He doesn't look at her, continues struggling with the saddle, his maimed arm holding the saddle flap up, good hand working the buckle.  She is not going to help this time. She refuses to help him self-destruct. 

"When was the last time you ran away from a fight?" he asks her.

She answers honestly.  "The last time I knew I would lose."  She has in mind Renly's tent, and the shadow.  She thinks of the two guards she had cut down in her bid to escape.  She had panicked then, and acted dishonourably and was still ashamed of it.  But she lived to avenge Renly and restore her honour and she cannot truly be sorry for it.

"I don't run from fights I have to have, Jaime. But I don't go looking for fights I don't have to have either.  And I don't set off on suicide runs." .

"I don't know that I am going to lose this fight," he says plainly. "I don't even know what losing or wining look like anymore. No one involved in this fucked up war does."

She grinds her teeth in consternation. "I can tell you what losing looks like in this war, Jaime.  It looks like ashes.  And that is what is going to happen to that Keep, and to you if you are in it. "

He finally turns to look at her.  His face is ragged, the deep lines visible even in the dark night.

"Don't you see?" he asks, his voice full of pain and desperation. "That's why I have to go!"

But she doesn't see.  She can't see anything other than the desolate visage of the man standing before her.  She tries to keep her voice calm as she answers him. 

"I don't see, Jaime.  Are you telling me that you have to go and die with her?  Is that what you're telling me?  Because if it is, I will never be able to see that. You don't have to die with her Jaime. You're better than her."

She steps forward, into his space, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.  He could run at any time, leap on that horse, and go.  He doesn't move away.  That's something at least.  

But his gaze, when he meets hers, remains despondent.  "Am I Just?  Better than her?" he asks, cocking his head slightly to one side. 

"How can you even ask that Jaime?"  Brienne stammers. She brings her hands to his face, makes him look at her, tries to force him to hear her, to understand.  "After all you've done, for Kings Landing, for Winterfell, for me?  You're a good man, Jaime.  I wish you could see it."

"A good man..."  He repeats the words slowly, as if examining them from every angle.  He grimaces.  "Brienne, you are a good woman. _A good person._ You see the good in everyone.  Even...even in me."  His voice sounds sharp, fragile, and he swallows hard before continuing. "But because you are a good person, you can overlook the bad.  The evil. Including that in me". 

He reaches up with his good hand to grasp her hand where it lies against her face  His thumb, perhaps unbidden, caresses her skin. "You can't comprehend the things I have done so you chose not to see them." 

Brienne stares at him, indignation and denial filling her. "That's not true, you've never hid what you've done from me and I've never denied it."

He shakes his head.   "You cannot have truly accepted it, or you would not think I'm a good man". 

Her eyes are stinging.  Her hands are shaking and her mouth is dry.  She recognises the signs.   _Panic_.  She tries hard to contain the wave of emotion building in her.   _I must not cry.  It will not help._

"Brienne," Jaime says softly, firmly. "I pushed a boy out a window, and crippled him for life.  I had Ned Stark's men killed in the street, just to send him a message.  I murdered my cousin with my own hands, used him as a pawn to escape captivity.  I did these things."

She shakes her head, vigorously.  "You told me.  You did all those things for love, for ... for her, Cersei."

"You think doing things for love excuses them?  You think Cersei led me along like a stray puppy for my entire life?  That's what I have been telling myself for years, Brienne.  But that's not how it works.  I know that now ... now I have you.  You can't choose who you love, but you can choose what you do about that love.  I chose to be with Cersei. I chose to do those things for her.  I made my choices. I can't walk away from that".  

Brienne can feel tears prickling in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.  "But you did walk away, Jaime.  You're here, with me."

"I didn't walk away.  I fled.  I hoped that I could come here, find you, and that being here, with you, doing something right for once, would make all that has happened, everything that I have done, just disappear.  And, you know, when I'm with you, sometimes, it does..." The last word is almost a sob, but he catches it with a breath. "But other times, it makes it worse.  I lie awake at night and think about what I have done.  For Cersei, for my family, sometimes even just for myself.  I think about what my family has done. What I come from.  How I have now dragged _you_ into this..."

"But you didn't, I-" She starts to answer, to assure him that he hasn't dragged her into anything, that walked into it willingly.  That she has wanted this, him, for so long that the thought of loosing it now is enough to break her.

But he holds up his golden hand.  "Listen to me, Brienne" his voice is cold now, controlled as it wasn't only a moment ago. "Everything Cersei did, I enabled.  Everything. Whether I was actively involved, or I turned a blind eye, whether I protected her, or just assured her that nothing else matters.  I fed her narcissism, her insanity. I helped create her.  And now, when things get bad, now I get to leave her?  I get to be the 'good man' and get forgiven and she goes to her death alone?  Why? How?  Because I've found love with a good woman?  How is that fair?"

 _"_ How is that fair?"She asks.  "Isn't it obvious Jaime? Because you're with me, with us, fighting for the world.  And she's with fucking Euron Greyjoy, hoping that it burns.  Surely you can see the difference?"

He looks down at his worn boots. 

"It doesn't matter. It's too late."  He tightens his grip on her hand, holding onto her against the darkness.  "I'm a knight in name only, Brienne.  My honour is beyond repair.  I have broken nearly every oath I have ever made - to the King, the kingsgard, Catelyn Stark.  I have one oath left now, and that is to Cersei.  I have one chance to get this right.  I am sworn to protect my Queen.  And that is what I  have to do.  For her, for me, for the child in her womb."

Brienne feels the cold blade of despair plunge through her chest.  She knows that Jaime has loved Cersei all his life, that he loves her still, that he had three living children with her and has one of the way.  Had society allowed, he would happily have married her.  Had she not been so foolish, he would still be with her.  To deny this is pointless.  But Brienne still she wants him to stay with her.  To damn his sister, and his family, and his accused and broken honour and chose her, and be safe. But she knows too that such a dream is impossible.  Jaime's mind is made up. 

The weight of the pain she feels is almost unbearable, far worse even than bear claws to her neck. She closes her eyes, grips his hand back as tightly as he holds hers, and tries to get a hold of herself. When she speaks, she tries to keep her voice calm, focus on the practical.

"Alright", she says slowly.  "So you do this, you go back to Cersei.  What is it you think you  _can_ do?" .

Jaime drops her hand, turns back to the saddlebags.  He has had a victory that maybe, just maybe, he didn't really want.

"I don't know", he admits. "I've never really been one for planning. Maybe I can talk her into surrendering.  Maybe I can get her to run away.  Maybe I can ..."

"Maybe you can get to run away with you?"  Brienne feels a stab of jealousy, a need to be spiteful. "So, the two of you get on a boat to Essos, and live happily ever after, like you always wanted."

"We live, yes."  But he doesn't sound happy.  Only resigned. 

"If you think Daeneyrs will allow you to do that -  "

\- I don't think!  I don't know what we will do or what she will allow.  But I am going to do something."

"You do realise that, when you get there, the city will be under siege?  You can't walk up to gates and knock!"

"Can't I?"

"No, you can't.  That Danearys won't let you do  _that_ is something I do know."

He sighs.  "They are ... ways.  Hidden ways into the city and into the keep.  She need not know."

And they are back to the keep, again.  She tries a final time. "If you are in it when they attack it, you will die."

"Yes". 

"I can come with you." She says suddenly.  "We can do this together..."

"No!"  He almost almost shouts it, a panic in his voice at the thought. But he collects himself. "No, you can't.  If I am to have any chance of success, you cannot be with me Brienne.  And, I cannot lose you.  Not for anything.   I need to know you are safe."

She takes a deep breath. "And when this is all over?  Assuming you're not in hiding, in Essos? What then?"  Her voice trembles, cracks. "Will you come back? To me?"

He turns to look at her, and she can see then the longing in his eyes, the love. He swallows, and steels himself.  "Who knows if there will even be an 'after'".

He lifts his foot into the stirrup of the horse.

"I knew what she was, Brienne, and I loved anyway.  What does that say about me?  If she is hateful, then I am too. But if I am deserving of forgiveness from someone as good as you, then surely she deserves that chance as well."   He pulls himself into the saddle. "And if I cannot help her, perhaps I can at least prevent her death, and that of many others.

"Please let me try."

Resigned, takes a step back as he mounts.  Her voice is think with tears. "I could call the guards, have you arrested, imprisoned for treason.  Now, or a minute after you leave."

"You could, but you won't." 

_His right.  She can't._

"You have the time until daybreak,"  she tells him. "I hope your horse goes lame and you can't ride it."

He nods, a thank you of sorts.

And then he is gone.

...

 

True to her word, it is morning when Brienne tells Sansa.

"He's gone."

The look on Sansa's face makes it clear that she does not have to ask who.

"When?"

"Last night."

"And you only see fit to tell me this, now?" The flash of anger and betrayal in Sansa’s eyes is undeniable. 

Brienne takes a deep breath, trying to calm her already ragged nerves.  "I'm sorry, My Lady.  I was most upset last night.  It was ... not a pleasant parting.  It was only this morning that I realised there were broader consequences."

It is not quite a lie, more a half truth.  _If I had told you earlier you would have hunted him down and maybe killed him,_ did not seem a better alternative. 

"I see"Sansa said. "He is half a day's journey away, at least.  I may be able to send ravens to Moat Cailin or other places on route."

Brienne meets her gaze. "He has not gone to help her fight, my lady, but to save her life."

Sansa frowns.  "The Kingslayer lies, Brienne.  He lied to us and he may have lied to you. I cannot afford to take risk."

"With respect, my lady, he has never lied to me."

They stand in silence for moment. 

And then Brienne says, cautiously. “My Lady, Sansa, can you get a raven to Tyrion?"

"I don't know, why?"

"Something Jaime said, last night might be useful.  There is a way into the Red Keep, another secret way.  He knows it, and I think Tyrion knows it.  It was how Jaime smuggled him out of the keep after Joffrey's wedding".

Sansa purses her lips, but is interested. “And?”

"Ser Davos told me how he use to smuggle food and weapons into King's Landing, by boat.  He and Tyrion shared some joke about using it to collect Gen – er Lord Baratheon from there.  I think, whatever that route is, it still open..."

Sansa's eyes narrow.  "What are you suggesting, Brienne?"

"That we help Ser Jaime get into the keep."

Sansa snorts. An unladylike sound. "That we help Ser Jaime get back to his sister? Are you mad?"

"No, listen my lady, please”.  She takes a deep breath, hopes her desperation doesn't show in her words.  “Jaime can help end this war.  He can help save Kings Landing.  Send a raven to Tyrion, say that Ser Jaime is riding south to try to negotiate with Cersei.  Say that he needs access to the Keep - that you understand Davos can help with help with that.  And ask Tyrion look out for him.  He will understand.”

Sansa sighs, looks at her hands as she twists them together.  She is considering it, if only as a least worst option.  "This is a very dangerous game, Brienne."

“Not so dangerous, my Lady.  If I am wrong, and Ser Jaime is going back to fight at his sister's side, than he have lost but one man to her.  A man who, with great respect, is a moderating influence on her. All her most extreme actions, she has done when he was not been there.  And if I am right, and he has gone to negotiate a peace, then he is the only one who can do it.  Your Queen can then take the city without destroying it, as she has always said she wants to."

“That was before more recent events. She won't like this."

Brienne nods. "That's why I am suggesting we write to Tyrion.  Not Jon."

Sansa smirks.  "Lady Brienne, are you suggesting we engage in subterfuge?  You have been learning."

"I can't spend time around you and not learn something, my lady."

Sansa releases a long, tired breath.  "Alright, I am taking a very large risk for you, Brienne.  You are fortunate that I value you so highly."

"Thank you my lady."

"We'll send a Raven.  Let us pray to our gods, old and new, that your faith in Ser Jaime’s ability to influence his sister is not misplaced." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My intention with this story was to stick as close to ‘canon’ as I could, while expanding and clarifying and trying to make sense of what happened. I still want to that ... but, we’ll, it is hard.
> 
> For what it is worth, while I would not have chosen the “depressed and self-loathing Jaime goes back to Cersei because he doesn’t think he deserves better” take on Jaime’s storyline, I am prepared to live with. In my view, it is the least worst explanation of the horrible mess that unfolded onscreen. I'm shipped Jaime since I first read the books over 15 years ago, but I am also a bit of a sucker for a good tragedy. Given the amazing actors, had it been well executed on screen, it could have been quite good.
> 
> But it wasn’t well executed, so it sucked. 
> 
> Hence, my initial idea for this story - an attempt to reconcile my broken heart and deal with canon. Something that will allow me to watch the show again without feeling bitter. 
> 
> But as I now try to write what a I had originally conceived, I find I can’t. It’s not really my Jaime who is rebelling (this Jaime is kind of over rebelling) but my Brienne and, most particularly, my Cersei. So the next chapters will diverge from canon. I’m sorry, I tried, but Canon is just too bad. This will need to fix it.


	8. And They All Fall Down - Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My reflections about how Cersei and Dany were treated in canon are in the end notes.

Jaime is just past the Crossroads Inn when he first hears confirmation of the siege. 

"Aye, m'lord," says the grizzled, near toothless merchant, happy to chat in exchange for a couple of groat.  "They is sayin' it's the grandest army since the Age of Heroes.  Unsullied, foreign horsemen, dragons.  Lannisters even got ‘emselves some lions and elephants! I’m stayin’ clear, tryin’ me luck up north this year”.

He gets some more reliable news from a sellsword with a startling resemblance to Bronn and an eagerness to talk for a little silver.

“Queen Cersei’s got the Golden Company ready to go, and the Dragon Queen's got her dragon.  My money's on the dragons, but I’m making sure I’m elsewhere.”

"How many men will make the field?" Jaime asks.

"All of them," answers the sellsword, with a laugh.

That night, as so many before, Jaime lies awake, and thinks of Brienne.  He remembers her long legs, and her strong arms, the endless expanse of her creamy skin and the desperate little noises she makes when he runs his tongue down her body.  But he also recalls the gentle way she cared for him on that awful trip to Harrenhal, their awkward reunion at Riverrun, and the way she opened his eyes at the Dragon Pit.  He knows he has hurt her, that she is too good for him, to devoted, and he tells himself that perhaps now she can be free.   He also thanks the Seven that Brienne is sworn to Sansa, and thanks Sansa too for avoiding this insanity and keeping Brienne safe in the north.

Yet when he finally falls asleep, it's Cersei he dreams of. She stands on a balcony high in the Red Keep, dressed in black and gold.  Her stomach swollen with potential new life, but her hands red with blood.

…

He’s a half a day from Kings Landing when he is finally recognised by someone who won’t forget they saw him for gold.

"Ser Jaime,” says the bucktoothed northerner he sees him. “We were told you would likely come through here. Your brother wants to see you."

Tyrion is looking for him.  He must have received a raven.  _The oathbreaker is on his way_. So, Brienne actually told them what he planned to do.  Of course she did.  She would do her duty, always, no matter how much it hurt.  He appreciates the bitter irony of feeling a little betrayed. 

He looks carefully at Tyrion’s men.  Bucktooth is pushing fifty, with a lisp and a limp, but a dangerous looking crossbow.  The three burly figures behind him appear well trained and daunting.  The Golden Lion would have killed that without pause, but he is no longer that man.

“Am I being taken prisoner?” He asks curiously.

“No if you cooperate, yes if you don’t,” answers Bucktooth plainly.

Jaime briefly contemplates not cooperating, but decides that four on one are not good odds. He’s escaped imprisonment many a time before, and he’s no use to Cersei dead.

_And if I don’t escape … to be locked up here and have what happens next taken out of my hand … well, that may not be so bad…_

He can’t help that unbidden thought, even as he mentally flays himself for thinking it.

It’s evening when they arrive at Daenerys’ camp.  He is bundled off his horse and taken to Tyrion’s tent with nary a whisper.  There’s no announcement of his capture or public humiliation. No unsullied guards, either.

He's pushed through the tent flap, and Tyrion welcomes him with a raised eyebrow and the offer of a generous cup of something Dornish.  He hates Dorne, but the wine has its merits. It reminds him of his first night with Brienne.

“So little fanfare,” he grins at Tyrion.”You would think you want my arrival to go unnoticed.”

“You might think that”.  He nods to the guards. “Leave us.”

They do.

Tyrion gestures after them.  "They are discrete and reliable, all of them.  But we need to be fast. Their loyalty is to Jon, not me, and Jon’s brain drains out his ears whenever he looks at our Queen.  Word of your presence will get back to her eventually."

Jaime grinds his teeth and sorts through this strange pronouncement.  He feels he’s walked into this story somewhere near the middle.

“I’ve missed something.  What is going on Tyrion?”

Tyrion ignores the question.

“You’re going back to her, aren’t you?” He asks, resignation and disbelief evident in every word.

Jaime grimaces.  “Yes  …. No … Bloody hell, I don’t know.”

“Well that covers all possibilities….”

“Fuck off”, Jaime says, but it is without rancor.  Truth is, it is embarrassing that he’s ridden for over a week, with little but his own thoughts to occupy him, and he still has no idea what he’s going to do when he gets to Kings Landing.  

Tyrion rolls his eyes.  “You’ve left a good woman, who makes you happy, to go back to the person who makes you miserable?  You really are masterfully good at fucking up your life, brother.”

Jaime frowns. He doesn’t want to talk about this, and especially not with Tyrion.

“Are you detaining me?” he asks.

“I should.  I should have you indicted for stupidity, if not treason.  But no.  You see, some days ago, I received a fascinating raven from Lady Sansa.  She informed me, in my role as Hand to the Queen, that Ser Jaime was riding south to offer his services to negotiate a peace settlement with Cersei.”

Jaime blinked.  “Um…”  Was that seriously what Brienne told Sansa? More so, is that what she heard? He feels a rush of affection for his stubborn, obstinate, good hearted, glorious knight.

“Yes, yes,” says Tyrion. “I’ve no doubt that Lady Sansa, or perhaps Ser Brienne, are giving you much more credit and far purer motives than you actually have, but it turns out that this letter is very convenient. You see, I happen to share your view that Cersei is fucked.  And while I can’t pretend to care as much as you do, I do care a little bit.  And I care a lot about everyone else in this wretched city.  The only way we are going to save any of them is if our dear sister listens to reason.  And the only person she listens to is you.”

Jaime nods.  “And you have a plan?”

“Of course I do…”

So Jaime listens as Tyrion explains it.  Davos can get him into the city, and he can use the secret passages to access the keep.  They’ll leave him a boat and, as best Tyrion can arrange, safe passage, but only if Cersei stands down early enough to save lives.

“You must convince her to offer her surrender and ring the bells, Jaime.”

Jaime nods, and agrees.  “I’ll try.  I swear it”.

Jaime knows Tyrion’s taking a risk, for him and for Cersei and for all the people of Kings Landing.  And he loves him for it, for everything.

“Your Dragon Queen won’t like it”, Jaime says, later.

“I know that,” Tyrion answers.

Then they talk, long into the early hours of the morning.  They both know it’s likely goodbye.  And when Davos comes to get Jaime, they both wipe the tears from their eyes.

 ….

Ser Davos deposits Jaime in a small cove on the edge of the city just before dawn, and points out the ‘secret entrance’. The unguarded archway is blatantly obvious, and the hundreds of empty oyster shells littering the beach suggest its not even secret.

“I can’t believe this escaped my notice as Lord Commander,”  Jaime says.

“No point holdin’ onto me secrets now.” The onion night smirks. “Understand you were fired from the post anyway.”

“Political differences” mutters Jaime.

“No doubt.  We’ll leave the dingy ‘ere.  Good luck, Kingslayer. ”

And with that he is off.

Jaime takes a moment to orient himself before heading to the Keep.  Kings Landing is the location of both his greatest successes and greatest failures.  It’s been his home for over thirty years. If he never sees it again after today, it won’t be a moment too soon.

…

 

He finds her, of course, in her solar.  She’s standing on the balcony, wine in hand, dressed in a Lannister Crimson gown that is so structured and rigid it could be armour. She looks regal and majestic, terrifying and awe-inspiring.  Beauty and beastliness in one.  He loves and loathes her in equal parts.  She will always be his Queen.

She looks up as he enters, sees him, and very slightly falters.  She’s so perfectly controlled and deliberate in her movements and expressions that few would notice the signs of her surprise.  But Jaime does.  He sees the slight tremble in her hand, the tiny rise of her eyebrows, the set of her lips.  He also sees something else flash across her face - something fleeting and raw.  Fear?  Is she scared of him?  Does she think he is here to hurt her?  Perhaps to take revenge for that ill-conceived assassination attempt?  _Does she truly think I am capable of that?_ He can’t quite believe it. 

_She has never feared me, not as I have her._

But then whatever that expression was, it is gone, and he wonders if he was mistaken in seeing it. 

 _No,_ he thinks.  S _he was afraid.  Maybe Terrified.  But of what?_

Her face now wears its queenly make.  Neutral and slightly condescending.  He wonders, briefly, where her crown is.  _Perhaps it weights too heavily on her._ No, she loves it so much, he is surprised she doesn’t take it to bed.  _Maybe she's getting it polished._

“Jaime,” she inclines her head in greeting, and offers him a welcoming smile. This reunion is not quite the heartfelt embrace he’d imagined, but it’s much better than the instant beheading-by-Mountain he had feared.

He can’t help but look at her.  There are new lines around her eyes, creases that follow her smile.  Her teeth, once brilliant white, are now ever so slightly yellow. But his name on her lips- _J_ _aime -_ still ignites a familiar feeling of heat in his chest.

Only this time his stomach burns too. A dull, budding nausea. He feels subtly out of place, disoriented.  _I no longer belong here,_  he thinks.

Cersei, on the other hand appears completely at ease.  _Of course she is.  She expected me to return. To her, we are one blood, one body. She would have been more surprised if I had not come to be rejoined._

“You are not surprised,” he finally observes, blandly.

She smiles, tight lipped and slightly mocking.  “I knew you would _come_ for me, eventually.  Although I had not expected you so soon.  My men had been told to look for you.   Clearly they require better motivation.”

The emphasis on _come_ is obscene.   She rolls the word in her mouth, in the same way she did his cock, on those rare occasions when he earned it or she wanted something from him.  An image rises in his mind of Cersei on her knees, her mouth around him.  A year ago, it may have been enough to make him spill in his pants, but now he feels no arousal.  He feels only the low level nausea simmering away in his guts.

“Do not blame your men,” he tells her. “They were no doubt diligent, but I had other ways in.”

Cersei raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. Her irises are as green as the ocean off Casterly Rock, flecked with gold like sunlight.  Jaime finds himself sinking into them as he has so often before.  As he had that first time with her, when she enveloped him in her arms and legs and purred, “come in to me Jaime, come home, let us be one…”.

But when she whispers to him now, it is not in seduction or welcome, but impatient consternation. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

 _Isn’t it obvious?_ He thinks. _I’ve come back to you to save you._

But it’s not so obvious, really.  There are so many other options now.   _I’ve come back to you to save another_.  _I’ve come back to your because we belong together.  I’ve come back to you because we deserve each other._ _I’ve come back to you to die._

 _Which is it , Jaime?_ he wonders.

He wants to go to her, to embrace her, to hold her close and never let her go.  He wants to run, to flee back north, to hide himself in the snow.  He wants to stand here, lost in time, and let the emerald waves of her eyes wash away the tumult of guilt and doubt and angst that clings to him in her absence.

But instead he simply says, “we need to talk.”

Her eyes flicker to the door to her chambers.  A warning, perhaps?  Her Mountain likely stands outside.  She can call to him and he will come.  Jaime nods, he understands.

“I am not here to harm you, Cersei,” he assures her. “I am here to help you.”

He takes a step toward her. They are still half the room apart.  Below them, the city waits.

Then he captures her gaze, and says firmly. “Actually, fuck talking.  We need to leave.”

 _Fuck talking, Fuck loyalty._ The words echo in his head.  Another's words.  

Cersei cocks her head to one side, and takes a long sip of her wine.  _Does she remember too?_ She moves closer then, hips swaying in that sensual way of hers, eyes holding his.  But not too close.  She pauses at a table, still well out of his reach.  There’s a carafe and a spare cup on it.  She pours another wine, offers it to him with an outstretched arm.  Even from this distance, the smell is strong and inviting.   He longs to take it. It would be so easy to fall back into this - strong wine and soft arms and Cersei’s singular ability to make him feel that nothing else matters.  A welcome oblivion.

But he shakes his head.  “We don’t have time.”

She shrugs.  “Suit yourself.”

She casually fills her own cup again, and takes a long, slow sip, singularly devoid of urgency.  Is she taunting him?  Power is her game, and she’s masterfully good at it.  Usually he just lets her win, as he has with almost every game she plays.  But this time he must fight.  The stakes are too high to lose.

He looks her over carefully as she drinks.  Her face is flushed, and he can see a spray of red across her nose.  Her cheeks have a fullness to them that wasn’t there before. Her waist is thickened too, although whether from the pregnancy or wine he cannot tell.  

 _No, do not deceive yourself_ , he thinks. _Any baby must be seven or eight months progressed, and she cannot be that far along._ If she is with child, it is not this.

At this realisation, anger, resentment, regret and relief all struggle for dominance within him.  Should he mourn the baby, or be happy to be free from Cersei?  He doesn’t know.

 _It doesn’t matter._ He tells himself. _It changes nothing. You’re here for her either way._

But his nauseated stomach churns some more, and the wine’s odour turns repellent. 

“You look dreadful,” Cersei interrupts his thoughts. “You know I hate the beard.”

 _You hate it because it makes me look less you,_ he thinks.  He wonders, passingly, if that he why he grew it.

“I haven’t had time for personal grooming.”

She laughs, a high, sharp sound.  “That, dear brother, is very apparent.”

How he used to love her laugh.  It was so rare, more precious to him that gold (of which, to be fair, they had plenty).  It used to make his heart dance, and other parts as well.  He remembers how, as teenagers, she had laughed as they danced and sung to each other in an empty ballroom, her loose hair rippling over her growing breasts, and her voice high and clear.  She’d smiled at him from beneath her lashes, and he’d assured her that he would never hold another woman.  They had promised each other that day that one day they would dance together for all the Seven Kingdoms, and she’d laughed at the thought of that too.

 _Perhaps we did fulfill that promise_ , Jaime thinks.  _Just not in the way we dreamed._  He dances with oaths and promises, Cersei with words and schemes.  He doesn't love her laugh now. Once beautiful, it is now mocking and cruel.  _Whatever happened to our innocent childhood dreams?  When did we turn from kisses and promises to bickering like this?_

He sighs. “Cersei, I didn’t come to argue…”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” she laughs again, slightly crazed this time.  “You came to ask me to run away with you.  Now?”

“Yes” he answers simply.  There is not much else to say.

Cersei gives him a sarcastic look, then inclines her head to the balcony.  It’s an invitation to join her, and he does.  They’ve shared this window many times, but never this particular view.  Jaime gasps when he sees it.  The surrounding hills, once lush and green, are now denuded of trees, the timber presumably consumed by fire in making the tools of war.   The northern army is massed outside the walls.  Thousands of non-combatants are huddled in every crawl space and passageway and hovel in city, swarming like ants.

 _They think they are being protected, b_ _ut they are_ _human shields_. _More armour for Cersei._

The gates are now closed, thank the Gods.  At least there is a limit to this madness. Those turned away will likely soon be glad of their apparent misfortune

He stares at Northern army.  He fought with those men but two months ago, and now he stands next to the woman would destroy them.  This is insane.

Anticipation hangs heavily over both armies and the city alike. 

 _They are waiting for something_ , he thinks _. Perhaps for me to ring the bells._ He needs to do that, soon.

“Did your dragon queen put you up to this?” Cersei asks, suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.  

His answer is immediate.  “She’s not my queen.  You are my queen.”

“You fought for her.” There is, surprisingly, no petulance in her voice, just an acknowledgment of fact.  

“I didn’t fight _for her._   I fought for the living, against the dead.  I fought for you, Cersei, for the baby and our future and that of every person alive.”

“How very honourable,” she drawls.  “Tell me, does fighting for ‘every person alive’ include fighting for your great blundering beast?  Or does _she_ simply trample the dead underfoot with her hoofs?”

Jaime stiffens.   _She_ _knows about Brienne_.  Not only that, but she’s deliberately goading him about her, so she must know mocking her will hurt him. The simmering bubble of nausea in his stomach rises to a full boil. He wants to be sick.

He also wants to defend Brienne, to punch Cersei and shut her up as he had that northern fool, the one that called her _Kingslayers whore._  But he doesn’t.  Brienne would not want him to damn an entire city just to protect her honour.  

_Cersei might though._

“She was a diversion,” he says quickly. “Nothing more.”

“You lie,” Cersei says.  She is not even looking at him, not caring about his reaction.  “If you wanted a ‘diversion’, you had options other than that _thing_. She means more to you than a quick fuck or you wouldn’t have even been able to get it up around her.  Still, it doesn’t matter anyway.  You’ve come back to me, as I knew you would.  You always do.”

He nods.  “Yes.”  Why argue with that truth? 

Despondency gnaws at the corners of Jaime’s mind.  Uncertain, he turns back to the view over the city.  There are crows circling in the sky above, cawing and crying to each other impatiently.  _Awaiting their feast._

The battlelines of both sides are trembling in anticipation.   Its feels worse than those horrible minutes before the Night King. 

 _Then you stood beside Brienne_ , he thought.  _And all your concerns were for her survival_.

 _As they are for Cersei now_ , he reminds himself. 

Jaime turns to look at her then.  She is in profile, and so beautiful.  He can imagine her stern face on a royal coin. He wonders idly if she has minted any yet.

He reaches out with his left hand, takes her chin, and gently turns her face to his.    

“You can’t win, Cersei,” he says.  “Not in any meaningful way.  You may have the Golden Company, but she has a dragon, and her unsullied and Dothraki.  Her numbers are reduced, yes, but those that have survived till now are the toughest of them, the most seasoned.  If you allow this battle to happen, there are only two possible outcomes.  Either Daenerys destroys this city, or the two of you destroy it together.  Either way, you’ll be dead.” 

She meets his gaze defiantly, although not without sadness. “As will you.”

He nods.  “Yes.  Unless we leave now.”

Cersei puts a hand to her stomach.

“There is no baby, Jaime,” she says, almost wistfully. “I have not felt it move for months.  I lost it, after you left.”

She is perhaps testing him.  But there is also recrimination in her voice. _Look what you did. Look how you destroyed another of our children._ She wants to hurt him, and she does a little. But he is already carrying so much guilt that this barely stings.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, repeating the resolution he had already come to. “I came back for you.”

Her eyes are glassy then, and he thinks, maybe, she blinks away tears.  It is so rare for Cersei to cry.  She considers it a weakness. He can remember crying at their mother’s funeral, and at Cersei's impending marriage, and Cersei comforting him both times with her dry eyes and anger.

Then she licks her lips, takes another long sip of the wine, and is composed again.  

They stand in silence for a long moment, Jaime contemplating his next move.  And then, somewhere off the coast, he hears the familiar sound of dragon wings, and then dragonfire. 

“She’s coming,” he says.

Cersei shudders, but does not move, her eyes fixed on the city.

“How were you planning to leave exactly?” she asks.  There’s a hint of amusement in her voice, but maybe also a dash of worry.  “Do you have a carriage ready?  And a promise of amnesty, so I can travel unimpeded through enemy lines?”

“Sort of.  I have a boat and an undertaking from Tyrion.”

Cersei snorts. 

“He’s good to his word, you know that, Cersei.”  _Far better to it than I am, really._

There is a distant sound of something breaking and exploding.  Men screaming on the wind.  

“Well,” she says, “our plans are unusually in agreement.  Very soon, I will be leaving this city, although perhaps not by your boat.”

“What?” Jaime asks, surprised and confused.

“I already have an exit plan, Jaime.  Look around you.”

And for the first time Jaime looks.  Really _looks_.  The room is nearly bare.  The cup is gold plated but chipped.  The carpets are several years out of date.  He noticed the poor furnishings as he entered, had thought the keep looked scrappy and in poor repair, but realises now it has been stripped.  

His head begins to spin. 

“Euron’s fleet holds Blackwater Bay.  They are waiting for me.”  She says, calmly. 

“Waiting for you to go where…?” he begins.  He’s so tired of other people’s plans.

"Lannisport," she says.

He's about to ask _why,_ when they are interrupted. 

“Your Grace…” a soft, obsequious voice seeps from behind them.  Jaime turns. Qyburn is standing in the door.  While Jaime will forever be grateful for the care he took with his stump, the creepy bastard still makes skin crawl.  

Qyburn notices Jaime almost immediately, and bows his head. “Ser Jaime.”  If he is surprised, he does not show it. 

“My Queen,” Qyburn says, turning to Cersei. “The Iron Fleet is destroyed.” 

Jaime looks from Qyburn to Cersei, but neither show any emotion.

“Euron?”  She asks. 

“Likely dead, your Grace”.

 _Good_.  Thinks Jaime. _At least one thing has gone right today._

Cersei nods, although only slightly.  “A shame, but we are fortunate, my Hand, for Ser Jaime is here to help us.  He tells me he has brought a boat. We will proceed with the progress.  Please find the Mountain and ask him to guard the stairs, then and make your way down to the mosaic chamber.  We should be safe enough there while we work out where to go.  Please ensure there is no one in our way.”

Qyburn nods.  “We will do as you ask.  But will you be safe, your Grace?” he asks cautiously, eyes straying to Jaime.

“Yes,” she says shortly “Quite safe.  Carry on as planned, Hand.”

Qyburn nods, and leaves.

Jaime wonders briefly, what _“carry on as planned”_ means. He is struggling to see anything resembling a plan here.  But he has bigger concerns.

“I brought a boat to help with _your_ evacuation.   Not Qyburn’s.  Not the bloody Mountain’s.  I’m not taking that … thing …anywhere.”

Cersei scoffs, and drains her drink, and then the other one that lies untouched on the table as well.   “Oh Jaime,” she says, “you are so unrealistically proud.  Who is going to row this boat you brought?   I won’t, and you have only one hand, and I don’t fancy going round in circles.”

Her words are cutting, and he stares at her in shock.  He can almost feel his missing fingers clench and unclench.  But he decides to let the insult pass.  _She is stressed.  And in any case, there is no time_.

Which makes the Hand and the Mountain a problem for later.

Outside the window, there is another explosion of noise, followed by a wave of heat that burns against his face. He suspects the dragon just blew up the harbour defences.

“We are going now,” he says firmly, taking her arm. “Come on.”

Jaime heads for the door to leave her chambers, to find the staircase down and out of the tower.  For a brief, terrible moment, he wants to run straight to the cove, get in that boat and leave, damn the city and the Dragon Queen and Qyburn and the Mountain and every other fucking person here. But he can’t.  He’s sworn a vow to Tyrion that he would ring the bells. And in any case, he can't let these people die.

Another voice radiates in his head. _You’re a good man_. He isn’t.  Not really.  But Brienne thinks he is, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her.  Not again.   

With a groan, Jaime turns, and heads toward the stairs up instead.

“We’re do you think you’re going?”  Cersei yells after him.

“I'm going to ring the bloody bells and surrender,” he answers. “Put an end to this madness before it costs another life, Lannister or otherwise.”

“But you can’t!” Cersei stops in her tracks, only to stumble as he pulls her forward. “We need the battle to cover our retreat…”

He cuts her off. “No we don’t.  We have been given safe passage.”  He looks up the staircase. “You stay here, I’ll be faster by myself.”

“I don’t trust Tyrion!”

“I told you, I do,” Jaime says firmly. “And so should you.”

He steps onto the first step, but she grabs at him harder.  He turns to look at her, and has the sudden image of an intelligent rose tree, its thorns grabbing and tearing at him even as he admires its beauty.

Her eyes go huge and liquid, and her voice tremulous and sweet. “Don’t leave me Jaime.  Please, I don’t want to die here. I’m so afraid!  Let’s just go.  Please, stay with me!” she cries. She flings herself into his arms, pressing her generous chest against his chest.

_Stay with me.  Please._

Another had spoken those words to him, and she had done so with genuine love and desperation.  Cersei did not sound the same. He takes a breath, pushes her back, looks at her.  She is scared, yes, but there is something else there too.  Cunning. He will not be fooled again. 

“Come or stay, Cersei,” he says, his voice hard. “I don’t care.  But I am going to do this.”

“No, you’re not,” she commands.

He may be the stupidest Lannister, but he knows his sister. There is more going on here than he realises...

And then he does realise. “You’re not scared, not really.  You just don’t want me to ring the bells.  What are you up to, Cersei?”

She looks at him evenly, a challenge.  

“You wanted this fight…” he continues, slowly, the threads of the plot beginning to form in his mind.  “Calling the parlay, then assassinating MIssandei in the most vicious way possible.  You set out to incite the Targaryan girl.  You’re not stupid. You wouldn’t have done this with no reason.  But what can you possibly hope to gain from this madness?"

Cersei smiles now, a genuine smile that reaches her eyes. They don't look like the ocean anymore.  They look like wildfire.  

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, maliciously. “I’m making her _mad.”_

Jaime feels a cold, terrible knowing that root in his mind. _She’s too much like her father._

He stares at Cersei, thoughts frozen on the edge of his mind, not daring to examine them further.   

“Did you know, Jaime,” Cersei drawls, “that the Mad King stored barrels of wildfire throughout this city?  Qyburn found them.  They are everywhere.  It’s just like you said – Aerys really was intent on burning it all.  And he had the means to do it. I’m going to let his daughter finish what he started.”

A buzzing starts between his ears. A thousand flies. They are eating his mind. 

Cersei continues, her smile growing wider.  “Whether she intends to our not, the Dragon Queen is going to burn this foul city to the ground.”

 _I’m dreaming. A nightmare. I’ll wake up in Winterfell._  

But he knows he won't.

She’s grinning at him, but unlike Aerys there is no madness in her eyes.  Just cold, hard, determination and heady self-satisfaction.

“It’ll all go up, Jaime.  Every filthy, sordid part of it.   This Keep, where Robert polluted me and Tommen betrayed me. The whorehouses, were he dishonoured me. The streets where I was paraded like a common whore. And every filthy wretch who threw shit at me, or spat at me, who leered at me or laughed at my shame.  They will all burn.”

Jaime finds he can barely talk. He can understand her anger, her humiliation, but this is no solution.

"You can't be serious", he chokes out.

He is breathing heavily.  The world is spinning. He wants to withdraw, to _go away._ He focuses instead on the feel of her fingers on his arm, digging and massaging and teasing  They are like poison knives, biting deep, but reminding him he is _here_. 

She can see the horror in his face.  She smiles sadly at him, condescension dripping from her. “I had feared you would be too weak for this, little brother.  I hoped you wouldn’t be here for it.  But you are, and so you must be strong.  You swore that you would always love me, and protect me, and now you must fulfill that oath.  It's simple.  Leave with me now.”

He tries to gather his thoughts.  His voice, when he speaks, is remarkably calm. “I am trying to do all those things, Cersei.  But you can’t do this.”

“No? What would you suggest that we do instead Jaime?”

He thinks, desperately.  “Fuck this insane revenge.  Forget the city.  Come with me, we’ll go somewhere far away.  Somewhere safe.”   _After I fucking kill Qyburn, anyway._

But she shakes her head. “There is nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms that will be safe for us, Jaime, unless we are in control of it.  Our enemies will never let us rest.”

He wants to yell at her, shake her, hit her.  But that won’t help.  He takes a deep breathe, and says as calmly as he can.

“They are certainly not going to let us rest if we destroy a bloody city.”

But she shakes her head.  “They will.  Because they will have no choice.  This isn’t about revenge, Jaime. It’s about safety.  Remember, after Joffrey and father died, I spoke of moving the capital to Lannisport.  You said I shouldn’t be stupid, that if we moved, someone would move back here, and start a rebellion.  You were right, for once.  But we won’t need to worry about that anymore, Jaime. There will be no one here, and no city left. The Targaryan slut will get the blame.  She will never have the support of the Seven Kingdoms after this.  And who else is there?  The Baratheons are gone, the Martels are gone, the Tyrells are gone, the Greyjoys are gone and the Starks only care about the North.  We will to back to Lannisport.  We will make it the capital.  A great, golden capital, for a new age.  It will be what father always wanted.  A Lannister dynasty to last a thousand years.” 

 _Father. Of course, it all come back to his father._ To the Lannister name.  The fucking legacy.   _All that matters is family._ Cersei had heard it, just as much as him, and she apparently believed it even more.  It is a madness that has destroyed them all. 

She reaches up then, wraps her hands around his face.  Soft, gentle hands, but they feel like burning irons against his skin.

“Be with me Jaime.  Let this city burn.  Come with me to Lannisport and help me start again.  Be my king. We can live together, Jaime, and man and wife, King and Queen.  Free to love.  It was always our dream.”

Was it?  He had, once, dreamed of a normal life with her.  But he had never dreamed of a throne, or a crown.  _Just us._   But not this _us,_ he realises. Not a love with the creature before him, with her murderous eyes and her loathsome schemes and the ghosts of their dead children floating behind her.  

“I think…” he says slowly. “That’s your dream, not mine.”

Gently, he takes her wrists in his left hand, and moves her hands from his face.  At the edge of his consciousness he remembers a parallel move, with another woman, a who glowed with her own inner light despite the dark that surrounded them.  A woman with large, calloused hands, and calm blue eyes.  A woman who genuinely loved him, and who would lay down her life to save even a single innocent, where this one would kill half a million people to sit on a fucking chair. 

Suddenly, he can’t stand to even touch her anymore.  He drops her wrists, severs contact.

She stares at him, hurt and pain and shock flashing across her face in turn.   She does love him, of that he has no doubt.  And he has hurt her, and he regrets it. But he has no choice. 

He steels himself.  “I am going to ring those bells and put an end to this madness, Cersei.  After that, I am leaving.  You may join me, or not, as you please.”

Her eyes flash hot with anger now. She is shaking with it.  She has never taken rejection well. 

“If you move even one step, I will call Ser Gregor.”  She says calmly.  “And he will come.  He is never far. And he will kill you.  You cannot make it, Jaime.”

Jaime hesitates, calculating.  How many floors is that tower?  He can’t recall if he has even been up it.  Gregor could certainly climb it faster.  

She looks at him hard. Her eyes have lost their luster and are filled with nothing but a fiery hatred. 

“I don’t know how I ever loved you.”  She spits at him. “You are weak, and useless. Your oaths mean nothing.  Everything you have ever tried you have failed.  You failed father. You failed Joffrey, you failed Myrcella, you failed Tommen, and now you have failed me.”

She draws a breath, chest rising, and opens her mouth wide to scream.

Jaime is on her before he can think. He holds his golden hand to her mouth, and wraps his flesh one around her neck.  _I must not let her scream!_   Her eyes go wide in shock.  She never expected he would do this. He never expected it of himself either.

She claws and punches at him, but her body is not honed for combat as his is, and her flailing is ineffective. Words were her weapons, and she cannot use them with no breath.  

He must do this, but he doesn't want to be here to see it.  Go _away_ , he tells himself.  _Go away, to another place._

But he can’t.  He owes it to her to be with her.  He stares at her face, her beautiful face, as the skin goes purple and blue.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.  The words pour from him like rain.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for everything.  I love you Cersei, I always have, but I can’t let you do this.”

He doesn’t know if she hears him.  She probably doesn’t believe him if she does.

When it is done, and she is still and silent, he lies her on the floor at the foot of the stairs. He didn’t mean to kill her, and he’s not sure if he has, but he has no time to check.  He turns, and races up stairs.

_Don’t think.  Don’t feel. Just get this done._

As he nears the top, the warm, humid air of the tower gives way to the cooler air of the city.  He can smell burning – human, animal, timber.  The air is thick with smoke and the sounds of destruction and agonised screaming.  Dragon wings pound overhead.  Underlying it is a soft chant, hundreds of voices, desperate and pleading.  “Ring the bells!  Ring the bells!”

How has this taken so long?  He grasps the rope in his one good hand, and pulls.  The resulting sound is loud and sweet, cutting through the cries of agony and fear. It’s followed by a cheer.  Other bells soon join it in song.

Jaime collapses against the wall of the bell tower, gasping.  He has done it.

He feels tried, so tired.  He is cold and shaky. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, his blood in his chest.  His hand is shaking and the world is spinning. His mind is numb.  Where there should be pain, there is nothing. 

 _Shock_ , he thinks.  _I’m in shock.  Like I’m been injured._ He supposes he has.

He wonders if he can get down the stairs.

 _Probably not_.  _I’ll sit here, and wait, and they’ll find me.  And maybe they’ll cheer me or maybe they’ll kill me._ He passingly thinks he might prefers the later. 

He supposes Brienne would mourn him.  Tyrion would, and his Aunt Genna.  Bronn might for gold. Other than that, who would attend his funeral?   Who would write his page in the White Book?  Who is Lord Commander now anyway?  Whoever it is will be joining him in the grave tonight. He can imagine that dour Grey Worm updating his page. He'd probably only need four words.

_Kingslayer. Oathbreaker.  Kinslayer. Queenslayer._

Or five.

_Sisterfucker._

He sees Tormund adding that one.  Except Tormund probably can’t even write.

Jaime laughs.  Then he sobs. 

And then he hears something that brings him instantly back to himself.

Another explosion.  More screams.  But different this time, more terrible. Not the deep, doomed cries of burning soldiers, but the high pitched desperate screams of women and girls.  The inconsolable distress of mothers losing their children.

_No, no, no, no._

Jaime struggles to stand, pulling himself over to the window.  He blinks, and tries to understand what he is seeing.  Drogon swoops low over the city, expelling a wave of fire over a residential district.  The city burns.

This cannot be happening. This is worse than Cersei.  _This_ , surely, must be a dream.  Some sick dream his fevered mind has constructed to torture him further.

But it is no dream.  He can smell the burning flesh and feel the heat on his face and his hand.

He has failed completely.  Decades after he sacrificed everything to prevent this, Kings Landing is burning. _He sacrificed his honour to kill Ayres to prevent this.  He strangled Cersei to prevent just this!_ It has all been for nothing.  There’s even going to be fucking mad Targaryan back on the throne.

Jaime turns and vomits, retching onto his shoes and the floor of the belltower.  

He remembers then Aerys’ purges.  Robert’s too, for that matter.  Naked bodies hung from the parapets, a final humiliation by their enemies.  He imagines Cersei like that, her body exposed, her beautiful eyes being eaten by crows. _Never again_. He turns from the window.  He cannot help these people anymore, any more than he can take back his murder of Cersei. _Would I, if I could?_ He doesn’t know.  Doubts now that he could ever have truly saved her. But he can save her from further desecration.

He stumbles down the stairs.

Cersei’s body still lies at the foot of the staircase, small and fragile now. He collects it, lifts it onto his shoulders, and heads down into the crypts.

On the main staircase, he finds Sir Gregor, facing off against the Hound.  Qyburn lies dead at their feet. Jaime stares blankly at the mess, only sad he didn’t get to kill the bastard. The brothers are glaring at each other in hatred.  The Mountain doesn’t so much as glance at his queen.  Jaime Looks at Sandor.   _Do you need help?_

“Get outta here, Lannister” says the Hound. “He’s mine”.

And he does.  He is to numb to care.

By the time he reaches the ground floor, the Red Keep is shuddering and burning down around him. 

In the bowels of the keep, beneath the black pits, is where the remaining wildfire is stored.  He couldn’t destroy it, so he did his best to hide it. Now the dragon fire will ignite it anyway, unless the keep falls down on it first.

He lays Cersei’s body down near the barrels.  Then he lies down next to her, and wraps his arm around her.

 _We came into this world together, and we will leave it together_.  Cersei had told him that, and he had promised her in return.  This promise he could keep.  She was right, as always.

His life has been a failure. He closes his eyes and waits for it to end.

But a voice in his head won’t leave him alone. 

_You’re a good man, and you don’t have to die with her._

_Brienne,_ he thinks. He pictures her comely face, her wide smile, her beautiful eyes and her determined glare.   _Get up,_ she would say. _People lose things all the time and they carry on. People make mistakes and then they fix them.  To give up is cowardice.  Live and make things better._

He thinks of how she loves him, of her tears when he left.  The faith she has had in in him, the honour she pledged in his name.  Her own honour, staked against her belief in the man without honour.

If he dies here, she will never know that her faith was not misplaced.  She will never know that the man who knighted her was a good man, who respected her, and loved her, and meant every word of what his said to her these past months.  

She’s right. He doesn’t have to die.  Whatever his past, and his failures, he can have a future.   _They_ can have a future.

The crypt above him shakes and trembles. 

He looks at Cersei.  She is his past, and he will always love her, always regret what he did to her, and what she was.  But now he is free.

Still, he cannot leave this to chance.  He must do her this one final courtesy.

Jaime races back to the crypts, finds a single candle still in a sconce.  He takes it back downstairs carefully.  He pulls out a single barrel of the wildfire, and rolls it to Cersei’s body.  He needs to ensure it won’t set off the lot.  He pours a small amount over her, rolls the barrel back, and then leans over and gives her a final, caring kiss.   

He wishes he could take her to Lannisport, to bury her with the family she has given everything for.  He wishes he could let her rest with their children, but they are all ashes.

 _Be ashes too_ , he thinks. _Join them in the wind._

He prays to the mother to forgive her.  The mother was always Cersei’s god. Motherhood was her crowning glory and greatest achievement, as well as the inspiration for her most dangerous crimes. 

 _As a mother is how I will remember her,_ he thinks.  A beautiful and fierce mother, a golden lioness, with Joff and Myrcella by her side and Tommen in her arms. 

“Go be with our children,” he whispers.  

He hopes she finds them again, wherever they are now.

Slowly, awkwardly, he takes off his golden hand, and lays that next to her too.  A physical part of him that will always be with her, although a part of his heart will too.

And then he lights the candle, places it next to her, and leaves, at first at a walk, and then at a run.

Behind him, the candlewick glows and the wax melts.

And then Cersei, like the keep and the city around her, burns.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the worst parts of season 8 was the complete misuse of Cersei. What did she want? What was her plan? We were never told. What’s more, she died crying and afraid, having had to be rescued by a man. That is just not Cersei. So here is my attempt to fix that. And in doing so, it turns out, I also fixed Jaime.
> 
> TBH, I don’t really like the idea of Jaime killing Cersei. I don’t find it particularly redemptive. But despite my best efforts, the story kept dragging me in that direction, and so I went with it. He is the Valonqar, and I think that, in the context of all that happens in this story, it works. 
> 
> Also, nothing in the world will convince me that Dany would suddenly start incinerating civilians like she did on the show. But I am only fixing a little bit of canon here. I am dealing with the rest in another fic. Call it therapy!


	9. The Last of the Lannisters - Brienne and Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, a happy ending.

**Brienne**

 

With Jaime gone, Brienne goes back to work.   

There is still so much to do.  Too much, really. Despite being home to dozens, and a safe shelter for many more, Winterfell is still barely habitable.  Brienne directs the clean-up, drills the men, and assists Sansa as best she can.  When pressed into it, she finds she is actually quite good at managing the mundane administrative tasks of writing scrolls and cataloging stores and putting things in order.  It’s the kind of work she hated as a girl, but she now she finds in it a welcome distraction.   

Brienne has always wanted to serve.  To serve a just lord or lady, someone honourable and wise, and do their bidding. She never saw herself leading, having proved so deficient at it on Tarth.  But she has grown in confidence these past years, and become disillusioned with so many so-called honourable lords.  

 _Perhaps to be a lord is not such an impossible thing,_ she thinks. _To be responsible for so many and so much is an honour as well as a burden, and something I may enjoy._

Yet as busy as Brienne is, it still feels like she’s treading water, waiting for something to happen as the world drifts past her.

Sansa lets it be known in Winterfell that Jaime Lannister travelled south to negotiate with his sister and to try to stop a war.  It provides some relief.  In the aftermath of Jaime's leaving, Brienne had expected jeers and sneers, “I-told-you-sos” and jokes about what he really intended to do with Cersei.  Jokes, inevitably, at her expense.  But that hadn’t happened, at least within her hearing.  Podrick tells her that most people at Winterfell have friends and family waiting outside the gates of Kings Landing, and welcome anything that will avoid them having to fight in its streets.  The Kingslayer, now useful in their narrow eyes, has finally earned their grudging respect.   _Too late for him to realise_ , she thinks sadly.

Still, while her days are busy, and she can forget, when she’s alone in her chambers at night, she misses him. It’s not as bad as she had feared it would be, and she feels no need to weep or cry as a maiden in a story would.  She’s not even angry, really.  She loves him and he loved her, of that she has no doubt, even if at the end, love was not enough. 

It pleases her that her chambers still hold memories of him.  Although he came with little, he left with less, and some welcome remnants of his brief time in the north still litter her room.  A fork, designed to fit his right hand so that he could hold his food, a broken belt he had intended to get repaired, the shirt she removed from on him his final morning. When she draws it to her nose, his scent still lingers on it. They are now a part of what makes this room home.

Brienne knows that, whatever happens, she won’t regret being loved by Jaime Lannister.  They had six weeks of bliss that she could not have previously even imagined. She draws upon those memories when she she lies in bed, and remembers what they did together, and occasionally when she seeks her own release, touching herself between her legs.  It’s not the same being with Jaime, only an echo really, but she’s known so little of pleasure before that it is still to her liking.  It is enough, for now, while she waits.

 …

Brienne waits nearly a fortnight before the letter from Tyrion arrives.  It is brief and circumspect. 

_“Jaime was here. He agreed to our plan.”_

Brienne reads it half a dozen times, and holds it until the ink is smudged and faded.  When it was sent, Jaime was alive, if not exactly safe.  That’s something at least. 

She is still unclear on what ‘our plan’ is. She knows only that it will involve Jaime being with Cersei, the woman in whose name, and arms, he has committed his most terrible deeds.  In her darker moments, Brienne imagines Jaime, naked and between Cersei’s legs.   _She lets him forget_ , she fears.   _He_ _will forget me_.  He will forget himself, forget _that he is no longer that man._ Other times, she fears that Cersei has imprisoned him as punishment for his betrayal.  She pictures him undergoing some grotesque torture.  Occasionally, she imagines him dead. 

 _But if he dies, I would know it, I am sure._  

During the days that follow, Brienne visits the ravenry as often as she can, driving Wolkan mad.  Sansa, too, is a regular.  She fears for Tyrion and Jon and even Arya -  “gone to do something foolish, no doubt.” They have become like those women in stories who, separated from their men, do nothing but nervously wring their hands and hope for news.   Brienne has always loathed such stories.   _And yet here I am,_ she thinks. Most evenings, Sansa embroiders, while Brienne paces, wearing a faded patch on Sansa’s stylish Dornish carpet.

Finally, days later, word comes.  Not from Tyrion, or Jon, but from Davos.  The Onion Knight has written the scroll in his own barely intelligible scrawl. 

_All gone to shit.  Danearys dead. Jon and Tyrion imprisoned.  Great Council to be called for the trial.  Come to the Dragon Pit, and hurry._

Brienne stares at the scroll blankly.  There is still no news of Jaime.

Sansa sends a raven to Royce in the Airie, who confirms he received a similar note.  Brienne fears it is a trap, but they agree they have little choice.  It takes a week to prepare, and nearly two more to ride to Moat Caillin. 

The ride seems terribly long to Brienne.  She feels sick and tired and achy.  She’s exceptionally grouchy even with Pod.  Her waking hours are consumed with a struggle against boredom and lethargy, and her night with memories and dreams.  In the twilight between sleep and wake, she is taunted by half-formed thoughts and fears, and a dull sense of panic and alarm.  Something is awry, unbalanced within her, but while suspicions flutter through her mind, she refuses to focus and see them.

Sansa is quiet too.  “Kings Landing holds few good memories for me,” she says as they ride.  “I had hoped to never see it again.” 

But Sansa will go, because she has two men to save there.  Brienne is not even sure she has one.

Moat Caillin is a ruin, but a few hardy souls and a skinny young maester make their home there, along with a small contingent of Knights of the Vale who hold it for Robin Arryn.  There is a scroll here for Sansa, this time from Arya.  It’s lengthier, more detailed, filled with politics and snark.  Brienne only truly cares about two lines.

_“Cersei is dead, her body burnt and crushed beneath the keep, and Jamie’s golden hand with it.  It wasn’t me, unfortunately.”_

Brienne reads the scroll carefully, twice, to make sure she missed nothing, and then she rolls it up and gives it back to Sansa.

“Brienne…” Sansa begins, her voice soft and comforting.

But Brienne doesn’t want her sympathy.  After years of hardening her heart to teasing, she finds that it is often acts of kindness that make her cry, and she does not want to cry here, in this mournful place, surrounded strangers. 

She swallows, raises her head and says, “if I may be excused, my lady.” She is proud that her voice is steady. 

Sansa gives her a sorrowful look, but nods and lets her depart.  

Brienne strolls the worn corridors, of the castle and feels the pain and agony tumble through her. She refuses to give into it.  _If they haven’t found his body, there is still hope, however little._ But if Jaime is alive, where could he be?  Had Cersei survived, he would be with her, in Essos or somewhere, surviving. Brienne would be jealous, but he would be alive, a small price she would willingly pay.  But with Cersei gone?  She had been so sure that he would come back to her if Cersei was gone, and yet he hasn't. 

She leans against a wall, defeated. 

“You have no need for tears.”

Brienne starts at the voice, and turns to see Bran sitting close to her, as motionless as the walls themselves.   _Where did he come from?_

Bran looks at her steadily with those large, dull eyes, and she wonders if he can see into her soul, as well as back in time.  _Back into my time?  My awkward youth? My nights with Jaime?_   He makes her uneasy.  She has, to the best of her knowledge, never spoken to him before this night.  She has, however, long known what Jaime did to Bran, and she supposes that knowledge is part of why she feels so uncomfortable around him.  He is the physical embodiment of the worst of Jaime.  And Jaime was right, she doesn’t want to see it.

“I don’t cry,” Brienne says hastily, “not often, and not again over … this.”

She wonders how the boy can even know what 'this' is.  She needs to get out of there. She pushes herself off the wall to leave.

“You carry him with you," Bran says, words piercing the darkness. 

"What?" Is he trying to comfort her?  It is having the opposite effect.  Her need to get out of here grows stronger.  She feels compelled to run and hide.  “If you’ll excuse me, my lord” she says, hastily, as she goes to leave. 

But Bran’s voice, soft and without emotion, stops her in her tracks.

“You are still in the North, Se Brienne.  Old Gods still hold sway over the lives and hearts of men in the North".  

“I’m sure that’s right…” she begins to say, not really caring.

But Bran continues in the same monotone.  "In the north, we have no septas, no priestesses, no intermediaries between men and their Gods.  We speak to the our Gods directly, and they to us through the forests and the beasts and the Weirwood Trees.”

"Yes, my Lord...” she needs to get out of here.

“The people of the north hold true to practices born in the mists of time. Practices that existed before writing, before castles and bloodlines.  These practices entitle two people, grown and emancipated, to pledge their troth before a Weirwood Tree, and forever be seen as one”. 

Unbidden, an image forms in Brienne's mind, of her and Jaime before the heart tree int the Godswood  Her heart rises to her throat, and her breath catches upon it.  She stops walking, moving.  “What are you saying?” she asks cautiously. 

Bran’s eyes are focused on something distant, but his voice is so close and intimate, it almost sounds in her head. “As the sun sets on their last day as individuals, the groom will wait beneath the boughs of a heart tree, as his bride comes to him. There, under the watchful face of an old God, they will face each other, profess their love, and take each other into their lives.  They may then let it be known that they are married in the eyes of the Gods and that it should also be so in the minds of men.”

Brienne feels like her heart burst from her chest   _This cannot be._

“A child, conceived on the night of such a marriage is considered to be truly blessed by the Old Gods."

Brienne swallows, and stares at the boy.  Her mouth is dry. 

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispers.

“Because you are afraid.  But your child will not be a bastard, Ser Brienne,” Bran said evenly. "Not unless you wish it, and perhaps not even then.  You were married in the way of the Old Gods. I will attest to it, and your child may be claimed by his father."

 _Your child._   

Of course, she is with child. 

It should have been a surprise, to be told so, but it wasn't. She has known, she supposes, for at least a week,  since that first day of the ride, when she'd been too tired to ride and too sore to sleep and too sick to eat and all she wanted to do was piss. Known, perhaps, ever since that wonderful night in the Godswood, when she had opened her heart, and her legs, and been so overcome by love and need that she had wanted him to spill in her, and damn the consequences.

 _Well, those damn consequences are here._ She thinks.  

She should be scared or sad or fearful, but she's not.  For all her occasional dreams of marriage, of children, never had she contemplated being told of her pregnancy by a boy in wheerchair, with her back to a wall of a foreign castle and a partner missing or dead.  And yet, she finds herself strangely calm. 

“We have never spoken before.  You barely know me.  Why are you telling me this?”  She asks Bran, finally. 

He brings his gaze back to her, meets her eyes.  

“Because you need to know that it can all work out in the end.” 

 ...

It is another three weeks to Kings Landing, with the knights and baggage train and Sansa.  Thee long, painful weeks of sore thighs, constant urination and an increasingly low tolerance for fools. She snaps too often, and at minor infractions.  By the end, Sansa’s escort – sturdy, hardened men, one and all – start bowing their heads and avoiding her eyes.  Even Pod starts getting skittish around her.  

She tells no one about the babe, not even Sansa.  She nurses a small fear that she is betraying both her squire and her lady with her silence, but she’s really not sure what to say to either.   _I suppose I can't hide it much longer_. 

By the time she arrives in Kings Landing, or what is left of it, she fears she is starting to show.

Approaching the ruined city, Brienne is shocked by the devastation.  The once majestic walls are blackened and shattered, and where the formidable keep once stood, there are now crumbling ruins.  Men, women and children, with skinny limbs and blank, dirty faces, cling to the shells of their former houses, or camp under the ruins of someone else's.  Waste pools in the streets.  The city is dying, along with its remaining people.  It’s a dreadful site.   _And meanwhile, the great and the good are scheming and plotting and planning another meeting._

 _We_ did this, she thinks.  The Lannisters, of course, but also the men and women she fought with at Winterfell.  The Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Dragon Queen with her dreams of liberation. Jon Snow and Davos and Tyrion too.  Every player in the War of the Five Kings.  _We all played a part,_ she thinks, w _e honourable soldiers brought these people nothing but misery and death._

It’s late evening when their little party arrives outside the Dragon Pit.  She is given her own tent, and a letter confirming that her father has appointed her as the representative of Tarth.  The tent looks unduly luxurious, particularly given the surrounding devastation, and she eyes it uncertainly.  Sansa touches her arm.

“Go and get some rest, Brienne. That’s my command.  Obey it.  Please.”

 _Does she suspect?_ Brienne wonders.  _Probably. Sansa is too perceptive, a legacy of her time with Littlefinger, and Cersei._

When she steps under the flap she is immediately grateful for the privacy and, in particular, the chamber pot.  These days she has difficulty sstill having keeping fluid inside her and getting more solid stuff out. Pod gives her a few minutes to relax, and then returns with a flagon of water.

“Shall  I assist with your armour, my lady?” he asks. 

“Yes, thank you Pod.”

He works with practiced efficiency, but his hands are unusually hesitant.   _He knows_ , she thinks.  And yet she still cannot bring herself to confess.  

When they’re done, Pod tidies quickly, than stands before her with his hands knotted together.  “My lady, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll give you your privacy tonight.  I have friends here I would like to meet for a drink.”

“Of course, Pod. Enjoy yourself.” 

F _riends_  - in this devastation.  _Lannisters or Stark?_ Pod knows both.  What were they going to do, she wonders.   _Probably drink._

 _Ah yes, drink_ , she thinks. _Drink is what got me into this._

Except it wasn’t, really.  She had wanted Jaime for so long, and with such urgent intensity, that the alcohol had acted more a salve than a fire. 

Brienne sighs heavily, and steps over to the pitcher of water.  The tent is the first real privacy she has had for weeks, and she finds she is actually curious about the changes to her body.  She slowly undresses and examines herself.  If she takes Bran's word, she is maybe two months along.  She runs her hand down her stomach, finds there is a gentle roundness to her abdomen that was not there previously.  Her breasts are fuller, more womanly.  Blue veins ripple down her skin. 

Well, now she is certain of one thing.   _I really can’t hide this much longer._ She needs to write to her father.  _And tell him what_?  In the space of a raven she’s married, possibly widowed, and expecting a child?  It will come as something of a shock. 

Had Jaime somehow intended the weirwood promise, she wonders passingly.   He had been reading in that library and contemplating the gods ... She doesn’t think he is that conniving.  At the very least, it would have taken an uncharacteristic amount of planning. But maybe, as a precaution, if he had been intending to go...

_If so, he could have just asked me, I would have said yes._

She shakes her head to clear her mind.  There is no point speculating.  She quickly gets dressed and crawls into bed.  It's a question for another time.  For now, she needs sleep.

…

The Great Council meeting is long and arduous, and Brienne’s patience is not helped by the fact she’s desperately trying to ignore her bladder. _This_ _is what I despised on Tarth._ She listens to Tyrion drone on, and vaguely wonders why a captive prisoner is telling them what do to.  Still, the little man is about the smartest person she knows, perhaps even smarter than Sansa ( _now they should have children,_ Brienne thinks mischievously). She doubts anyone there thinks war is romantic anymore, certainly she doesn't. They are all so tired of conflict and the speeches and politics that any compromise sounds good, even Bran as King.  

 _"It can all work out,"_  he had said to her, back at Moat Callin.  

Apparently he's got some power of insight, and anyway, she wants to believe his words.  So she votes for him on that basis.  She hopes he is right, that it _will_ all work out in the end, and that she is not being manipulated. 

She especially pleased that Sansa gets her kingdom. She will be a wonderful queen, clever and firm.  Brienne can at least have confidence in that. 

She leaves the Council to go and piss. 

…

Shortly after, Tyrion offers her Lord Commander, and tells her that Sansa approves.

Her first instinct is to grab at it, like a rope thrown to a drowning man.  It’s a dream come true, and if Jaime is gone…well, there is no reason to decline it.

Except that there is a reason, a big one, and it is growing in her belly. 

“Take a walk and think about it”, Tyrion says her, when she demurs.   

So she does.  She takes in the Keep, or what is left of it.  The crypts, the odd map courtyard room, the melted puddle of slag in what was once the throne room, and White Sword Tower.   The Lord Commander's chambers.   _Jaime's chambers._ She walks slowly through the rooms, touching the dusty items, the slightly battered White Book.  It's incredible that this part of the tower survived relatively unscathed, when other parts were ashes.  The thought comes unbidden:  _Had they not tried to flee, perhaps they would have lived._

_Perhaps Jaime did live, but why has he not come to me?_

A cough from the doorway interrupts her thoughts.  Tyrion again.  Scrubbed and cleaned, shaven, and wearing the hand pin, he bares a surprisingly painful resemblance to his brother - and, Brienne supposes, to his sister. 

"You have already been formally appointed, I see," she gestures to his pin.   

"Yes", he smiles.  "King Bran the Broken does not wish to be bothered by such inconveniences as being a king."

She nods. "This is a very strange state of affairs."

"And it seems we are only just getting started.  I hear we are soon to have a married grandmaester.  If that is the case, I see no reason why we can’t try a pregnant Lord Commander, if that is indeed your concern,"  he says, raising his eyebrows at her.  

Brienne blushes and looks down.  It's the first time someone has said anything directly to her, other than during that strange conversation with Bran.   _I have not even seen a midwife_. She smiles, and looks back up. Despite his crudeness, she likes Tyrion, and it is a relief to confide in someone. 

“You know?” she asks, hand on her stomach.  

"Yes.  It is Jaime's."  It's a statement, not a question, and she's grateful no explanations are needed. Tyrion must know the situation. 

"The rules only required that kingsguard members to take no wife and father no children.  You have and will do neither. For once, being a woman has actually worked in your favour", he grins. "Critics may well say that you have complied with the letter of the law, rather than the spirit, but as a habitual criminal myself, I am not in a position to judge."

She laughs at that.  “Well, Hand, I am no expert at reading statutes, but I can judge my own capacity.  A kingsguard guards the king. I will find it challenging to do anything of the kind, for the next few months and maybe for some time afterwards.   I am also tired of being laughed at, and that is exactly want will to happen if a pregnant woman guards a crippled boy…”

“…with a hideous dwarf as his hand, yes, yes.”  

Tyrion strolls the room, hands behind his back. “But let me say this, and please _listen_  before you decide.  We are not intending to just do things as they were before.  The kingsguard is not what it used to be.  Most of its members under Cersei were sycophants and degenerates, and most under Aerys were so stupidly loyal their brains atrophied.  Such men may be adequate with a blade, but a true kingsguard should be more than glorified bodyguards who stand by and watch while their king burns his subjects.  A kingsguard should guard not just the king, but the institution of kingship, and the institutions of the realm.  If we want such a kingsguard, we need a Lord Commander who is a leader and a guide, not just a sword.”

"Ser Brienne," Tyrion meets her gaze calmly.  “We want to reform the kingsguard into something truly formidable.  Jaime already started the reforms, as best he could, but you can complete them.  You do not need to be the one wielding the sword to do that.”

Brienne is sure that her mouth has fallen open.  She finds that she’s shaking a little, her stomach dancing with an excitement born of more than just the new life within it.  An opportunity to do something worthwhile has been laid before her, and she desperately wants to take it.

But her father...

“I am the heir to Tarth, the only heir…” she stammers. 

“Have I not said we are open to changing the rules?"  Tyrion grins. "We do not need you for your entire life. Such unrealistic requirements deprive us of good men.  Give us five years, less if your father needs you.  Help me establish a new kingsguard, a new world, and then you can return to your windy isle and rule it, I hope, in peace.”

She smiles, nods her assent.  It sounds wonderful.  Probably too good to be true, but she has not felt this kind of optimism since her ill-fated devotion to Renly. 

“Very well" she says.  Tyrion beams. 

The stand, smiling, and Brienne can sense the beginnings of a new allegiance, one forged in this room, heavy with the memory of Jaime, a man they both loved. They do need to talk, but not now. 

"Let's go, give Ser Davos the good news," says Tyrion wisely. 

They head downstairs to find the Onion Knight still under the canopy of tents established for the Great Council, scratching away at a scroll.  Brienne knows that if she is to sit on the small council with Davos, she will have to overcome her reservations about him.  She is determined to try, and his unceasing affability will make it easier. 

"We have had a welcome reconsideration," Tyion announces, and Davos grins and bows.  "We now only need a Master of War and a Master of Laws."

"Well,"  Davos begins, a little nervously. He glances at Brienne, as if he about to make a suggestion that will no doubt annoy her. "I was going to suggest Ser Jaime."

There is a moment of stunned silence, and then Brienne feels the world begin to drop away from her. She and Tyrion both say, in shocked unison, "What?"

Davos' eyes widen. "Oh, bugger me with a poleaxe!  You didn't know?!"

"Know what?" she stammers, hardly daring to hope. 

"Jaime was injured in the keep, but he didn't die.  I got him out and headin' up north.  He was headin' to Winterfell."

“Why didn’t you tell us?" Brienne cries, her voice angry, her mind trying to sort through a jumble of conflicting thoughts. 

Davos is taken aback, but typically apologetic. "I haven't seen you in three months! And anyway, I believed he'd made his way back to you.  I thought, maybe, he'd made it and things hadn't worked out ... because of the queen..." he manages to say. "I didn't want to step into something..."

Brienne struggles to draw breath, or form thoughts, as a wave of relief threatens to overcome her.

"I have to...to go to him," she says. There's nothing else to do. 

_But go where?_

Then she feels Tyrion's hand on her arm, and hears his firm voice in her ear.

"No, there is no point in passing each other on the King's Road again.  Just wait.  My brother might be a fool at times, but he's not a total idiot. Just wait, and he will find his way back to us."

 …

  **Jaime**

 

Jaime is heartily sick of the King's Road.

He had just endured an agonising six week trip on a cart form Kings Landing to Winterfell, only to be greeted with the news that both Brienne and Sansa had already headed south, and that he had to turn around and head right back.  

Six weeks, and he is still sore, and weak, and desperate for a fucking bath.    

His exit from the Red Keep, painful enough in the wake of what happened with Cersei, had been further impeded by the surprise appearance of Euron Greyjoy on the beach, emerging from the water like some kind of slimy, half-drowned weasel.  

"You're too late" Jaime had said, "the whole keep is gone.  Get out of here."

"Why would I care about the keep?" Euron had asked, before inexplicably attacking him. 

Jaime has been in no mood to fight, but when confronted by the foaming lunatic, he'd been happy to take his anger out on him. Unfortunately, the fight hadn't gone quite as well has he had hoped.  Euron had ten fewer years and a hand to his advantage, but he was both singed by dragonfire, and a fucking idiot.  At the end, Jaime had killed him, using a rock to smash his head in after he tripped on detritus.   _Probably the remains of one of his own ships._ But Euron had gotten in a few good hits, and a couple of nasty stabs, and Jaime had immediately known he was in trouble.  He'd rolled to the edge of the high tide, let the salt burn his wounds, and then lain in the foam, injured and bloodied but determined not to die, until Davos had found him the next day.  

The Onion Night had made it clear to Jaime on numerous occasions that he was not overly impressed with him. But Davos was even less impressed with Daenerys - " _I'm fucking sick of royalty burning children" -_ and told him he not inclined to let her have another body on a platter, even if it was "only a Lannister's".  

"Yeh wanted for desertion, treason, murder and, potentially, regicide" he'd explained. "Her Grace was less than impressed that someone else got to do Cersei.  Anyways, I'll get yeh back to Winterfell and your lady, if she stills wants you, but you're gonna have to be quiet and trust me. It's gonna hurt." 

Davos had found woman to patch Jaime's wounds in exchange for gold, and a northern family who were happy for a few coins to ease their passage home as recompense for giving an injured soldier a ride.  They'd bundled him in the cart, with their children and their dog and their ever-clucking chickens, and started the long, slow journey to the land of blizzards and snow.  _And Brienne._ It had been an agonising trip, with every rut wrenching his cut and torn body.  Then, having finally got there, he had to turn around and head right back.  He fucking _hates_  the north. 

 _We probably went right by Brienne, while I was writhing in my sack,_ he'd thought despondently, as he'd kicked at the snow.    

But the thought was not entirely fair. The roads were flooded with people, and missing them would have been easy even if he had been awake.

He’d contemplated sending a raven from Winterfell, but found himself in the unprecedented position of having no money to purchase the privilege.  It was a new experience for Jaime, who for his entire life had either had unlimited access to however much he needed, or no need for money at all. He had tried sweet talking the Maester, but had failed at that too. 

"She'll want to know I'm alive,"  he'd assured the Wolkan, carefully not defining 'she'.  Chances are the only reason _Sansa_ would want to know he was alive would be to order his immediate execution, but Wolkan didn't need to know that. 

"Mayhaps she does, but yeh no more important that anyone else, my lord," the maester had replied. "I have limited ravens and instructions to use them only in emergencies.  You are not an emergency."

So, no raven.  And what would he say anyway?   _Surprise,_ _I'm alive?  Please take me back?  I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I am really sorry about leaving you?_

He ponders whether it would be easier, or harder, to say sorry in person, and decides that whatever is the case, saying it in person is more likely to be successful.  He needed to go south anyway.  Tyrion was in the cells, awaiting trial for something.  That was a problem he needed to address as well.  _If anyone deserves to be on trial, it's me._

Fortunately, Wolkan did agree to loan him a horse.

“A Lannister always pays his debts, and I'll pay mine with interest."  Jaime had said.

"Payment enough is you out of my way," Wolkan had responded dryly.

And so Jaime had climbed onto the back of his borrowed bay palfrey, and set back off south.   

Which is how he now finds himself back on the Kings Road.  Again. 

Unfortunately, even putting the frustration to one side, the journey south is not pleasant.  As the barren windswept tundra of the north gives way to the fields and plains of the Neck, the signs of war become more obvious.  Ironically, the better the land, the worse the road, the fewer the farms and the more wretched the people. There should be a mark on the maps, he thinks:  _Would-be kings fought here._ Farmhouses and barns lay abandoned, fields untended, paddocks devoid of stock.  _These people need the safety and security to get back on their feet_ , he thinks.  If something is not done soon, they are looking at famine.

He listens as he travels, hiding in plain sight and unusually confident he won’t be recognised.  He has never been unrecognisable before.  Golden hair, golden hand, golden armour, and a tendency to make a spectacle of himself.  Now his hair was dark, his face ragged, and his armour that of a common soldier. Even the missing hand is no longer unusual, what with so many amputee soldiers.  A crippled man begging outside the walls of Darry reminds him how fortunate he is not to have lost a leg.

The smallfolk talk of soldiers and bandits, almost as if they were one and the same.  _Perhaps the are_?  He recalls, disgustedly, the rampages of the Mountain.  They complain of absent lords and bullying gentry, of corrupt tax collectors, and cheating merchants, and of the constant fear they feel on the roads, in their fields, and sometimes even in their own houses.  But they also speak of their families, their children, their enjoyment of good ale or a well-flavoured pottage. They speak proudly of their apprentice son, the daughter who made a good marriage.  _Smallfolk with small dreams,_ his father had said dismissively.  But it seems to Jaime, now, that the dreams of the common people are not so different to the dreams of the bigger folk, just so much harder to realise.  _I never bothered to notice._

A War of Five Kings was probably inevitable, but this one was sparked by Cersei and he, by their love and their children.  _We caused this,_ he reminds himself, as he surveys the devastation. He can't undo it, but if given an chance, he will help fix it. It's not enough, but it's the best he can do. 

When he arrives at Kings Landing, at last, Tyrion greets him with a pardon, and an embrace, both stunned to see the other alive.

And then Tyrion tells him where to find Brienne.  The White Tower.  

He climbs the stairs to his old rooms, and there she is, sitting behind his desk, wearing kingsguard armor, and  looking, to his eyes, to be the most knightly person who has ever sat in that chair.  He stares at her like an idiot, unable to to think of any sufficiently admirable, intelligent, apologetic or even witty to say.  So he chooses something simple.

"Hello, Brienne.”

She looks up at him, and to his great relief, she smiles. That broad, wide smile that he so rarely sees.  It's almost, but not quite, the one she gave him when he knighted her. 

“Jaime,” she says.  His name on his lips makes his heart melt. 

................

**Brienne**

She's not really surprised to see him.  She knew he would come, eventually, just not when.

Still, as she looks at him now, it feels as if she is sitting in the middle of a whirlpool,  the entire world spinning and falling toward her.   Jaime appears just as engulfed, standing there silently with his mouth slightly open, as if his words were lost in the maelstrom. 

When she finally speaks, her voice is shaky. "You look good."

He tries to say something, fails, then coughs and tries again. "Yes.  Still a little worse for wear around the edges, but getting there."  He looks her up and down, not salaciously or covetously, but admiringly, and with no small amount of pride.  " You look ... well, wonderful.  Being Lord Commander suits you."

She smiles, "Yes.  Thank you."

There is another pause, nervous, but not uncomfortable.  Brienne replaces her quill in the inkpot, pushes away the account book.  She beckons to the chair in front her.  After a moment's hesitation, and with a look of slight disappointment, Jaime walks forward, pulls it out, and sits in it.  She wonders what he was expecting.  Weeping?  An embrace? A punch?  

"Haven't sat on this side for a while," he says, shuffling awkwardly. 

She meets his gaze.  He swallows.  They are both uncertain.

"Did you do what you needed to do?" Brienne asks quietly. 

Jaime sighs, looks down.  "I did what I had to do, yes.  But not what I wanted to do.  Cersei is dead."

"Yes, I know.  Did you...?"  

"Yes." He doesn't let her finish. "In the end..."  He shakes his head, trauma and regret written in every line of his face.  His voice cracks. "I thought I had little choice.  I doubt I will ever forgive myself.  Particularly as it turned out that the only difference was that a different queen got to burn it all."

"I'm so sorry, Jaime," Brienne met his wounded gaze. "I can't pretend that I'm sorry that she's dead, but I am sorry that you had to do it".   _Again_. 

"Few will mourn her.  But I loved her, and I still do."

"I know."

"I won't lie to you, Brienne.  I wanted to die.   Even before I did ... what I did to Cersei  I might even have been going there to die."

It is no surprise.  She had known that too, although she had not wanted to admit it.  

"But I didn't," he continues. "As that tower fell, I lay down next to Cersei, and waited for death.  I thought that, given how fucked up my life was, getting out of it would be bloody relief."  He takes a shaky breath, and then he meets her eyes again. "But, then, I started thinking about you.  I could almost hear you berating me, about how ridiculous I was being.   I thought about how my death would hurt you.  I realized how much I loved you, and that I wanted to be with you, and that maybe I still had a chance to be with you. And then,"  he shrugs, "death didn't look quite so good anymore.   A least, not death by tower.  There was still the possibility that you would kill me..."

He gives her a half-hearted smile, cocks his head to one side.  It's a familiar gesture, and one she adores, and despite the gravity of his words, she smiles back. "I'm too relieved to see you to contemplate killing you right now, but I reserve the right to feel differently later". 

He grins. Silence falls, and they sit for a time, both contemplating their thoughts.  Brienne absently traces the looping wood grain on the table, losing herself in the spiraling shapes.  She has so much to tell him, but no idea how. 

Finally, Jaime says. “I’m so sorry, Brienne.  For everything I have done to you. I don't know how you can forgive me."

She replies calmly.  “I’m not sorry.  There is nothing to forgive.”

He looks up, surprised. “Why?”

"Jaime, I've had a long time to think about this. I'm not sorry for our time together, not at all.  When you left, I was hurt, of course, and maybe a bit angry, but not bitter or resentful.  I heard what you said in that courtyard.  I know why you went back to Cersei, why you _had_ to go back.  You had loved her for forty years.  You couldn't have just ignored what was happening."  

He is staring at her now, eyes wide with bewilderment.  She takes a deep breath.  What she plans to say next is excruciating, but it has to be said.  

"Now I know you're safe, I'm glad you went back.  I am sorry how it ended, I am. You carry a terrible burden and always will. But had you listened to me, and stayed with me, and had Cersei died alone while you did nothing, your guilt would have hung like a shadow over everything else you did.  You could not have lived with yourself, and you would have come to resent me too.  Cersei, your abandonment of her, it would have eaten away at us, until there was nothing left of us."  

 _And I wouldn't want to give her that satisfaction,_ Brienne adds, but only in her head. 

"And if you hadn't gone, and she had succeeded in whatever it was she planned?  Well, that would probably have been even worse, for us, and everyone else."

"No..I..." Jaime stutters, shakes his head.  It is likely as painful for him to hear it as it is for her to say it, but she is sure he knows she is right. 

Finally, he says, somewhat despondently, "I’m just sorry I hurt you to do it. I should have resolved things with Cersei before we … well, before.”

“Maybe,"  she smiles. "But we had waited a very long, Jaime, and I was just as drunk as you were."

He gives a relieved laugh at that. 

Brienne shrugs.  "As you said, we don’t chose who we love.  You might not have chosen to love Cersei, but you did so all the same.  You’ll always love her.  I’ve made peace with that.  But I think ... I think you may have chosen to love me. I’ve made peace with that, too.”

A look of worry passes over his face.  “I’m not  _settling_ for you, Brienne, if that’s what you think.  I'm not just coming to you because Cersei is gone.  I love you, and I can't help it, but I also  _want_ to love you.  It's kind of novel for me..."

"You'll get use to it."  She inclines her head and smiles "But what I meant to say is that I know, I  _know_ , that as long as Cersei was alive, there was never a real chance for us.  That doesn’t mean I think I'm second best, and it doesn't mean that I wanted her dead, although I am certainly not sorry about it either.  But you and she were so intertwined and consumed by one another ...  Anyway, with her gone, you're free, and we have a chance.  A pretty good one, I believe."

He nods his assent, sad but hopeful. “I’m going to take it.”

“We’re going to take it.  Together.”

They look at each other for a long time, his green eyes meeting hers.  It's a promise, of sorts, and it will do.

 _It's time_ , she thinks. 

Brienne had wanted to be sure of his intentions before raising the issue of the child.   While she is near certain he will welcome the news, the last thing she wants to do is guilt him into something if he doesn't.  

She takes a deep breath, and pushes herself up.  She watches his eyes widen in shock, and then pleasure, as he sees her now obvious stomach. 

“You’re … pregnant," he whispers. 

“Yes.”

His reaction is one of almost unimaginable joy.  He pushes out of his chair, and half steps, half leaps around the table, covering the distance between them in a few, long paces.  She’s too big, and too dignified, to fling herself into his arms, but she does throw her arms around him when he comes within range. She holds him to her, as he puts his arms around her in turn, and buries his head in her neck, the growing baby cushioned between them. 

"Gods...I don't deserve this," he mumbles, his lips hot against her neck.

She doesn't want to argue, and frankly doesn't care. "Fuck deserve," she whispers.  "We want it, and we've got it, and let's just enjoy it."

She leans up and kisses him then.  A gentle kiss at first, but the tentativeness doesn't last long. He groans, and attacks her mouth with abandon.  

Suddenly, she's alight with need, she pushes him back against the desk. 

He freezes.  "Um, not here.  Not, this chamber..."

She gives him an a amused look.  "That's remarkably restrained and respectful of you, Jaime.  Very well, let's retire to the bedroom."

"Lead the way," he says, giving her a smoldering grin.

She take his left hand, and leads him down the corridor. 

“The position of Master of Laws of available,” she says, even though she's not entirely sure he's paying attention. 

“Laws?" He scoffs. "Does that involve knowing them?  Because that is not one of my strengths.”  His fingers are making inviting patterns on her hand. 

She hits him gently.  “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s about making sure the law is enforced fairly  At Winterfell, you said you wanted to help the people rebuild, well here is your chance.”

"I'll think about it..." They reach the door, and as she goes to open it, she feels his lips on the back of her neck.  "But, not right now..."

She continues talking as they undress.  Nerves, she supposes, but so much has happened that she wants to fill him in on too.  Without Jaime and Sansa, she misses just talking.   Besides, undressing takes a while, particularly as she is in full armour.  She doesn't want to summon Pod to help her remove it in the middle of the day, and particularly not with Jaime in the room, and the two of them obviously rather hot and bothered.  Now  _that_ would be awkward. Jaime is at least familiar with the buckles, having worn kingsguard armour for nearly thirty years, even if the mechanics of donning it were usually left to a squire. Three hands, working together, eventually gets it off, and the pieces clutter one by one to the floor.  

Jaime's brigandine is much easier to remove, and Brienne falls into the usual pattern of just taking care of his clothes.  She notices he doesn't have a replacement hand anymore, just a thick glove. She draws the stump to her mouth to kiss it as she leans down to help with his breeches.  He groans, his cock springing to attention. Clothes taken care of, they collapse onto the bed.  He's hot and hard against her, and she's very wet.

"It's no longer for life..." she explains.  She really doesn't know why she's _still_ talking, and particularly about the kingsguard    _Euphoria maybe?_   Jaime is making it incredibly difficult to concentrate as he licks her ear, her neck, her scars, her collarbone.  She grins her her leg against his erection in a subtle revenge.  Jaime moans, thrusts back against her skin.  She feels a slight wetness - he's leaking a little too.  He starts kissing his way down her body.  

“I promised him five years," she gasps. 

“That sounds fair…”  Jaime mumbles distractedly.  He is at her now sensitive breasts, suckling gently at one, hand massaging the other, and then swapping, a little awkwardly with his one hand, to the other.  They are so much larger now, and although he’d never say, she’s sure he’s pleased.  The noises he makes go straight to her groin.  Leaving her breasts, his tongue starts its journey down there.

"I can't be lord commander and inherit titles, but as long as I resign my post first, Bran accepts I…oh!" She can barely talk as he swirls his tongue around her belly button.  Her stomach is a little distended, and it blocks the usual view of his head, and mouth, as travels lower.   She's slightly disappointed and frustrated, but she's not sure she has the strength to sit up.  She can see her legs start shaking. 

“And he’s agreeable to changing the rules more broadly, to allow married men too…”  she continues pointlessly.

His lips trace a line down to the top of her curls.  “Fascinating....”, he murmurs, clearly thinking it is anything but.  He kisses his way through her curls, and then shuffles lower, and settles between her legs. She feels his finger gently touch above the entrance to her folds. “Gods, I’ve missed your cunt…”

She shudders at his words, and feels a new rush to her groin.  She cannot possibly get any wetter. 

“…a celibate kingsguard created its own range of problems.  Kingsguard with families will, too, but the solution is not to ban relationships, but to break the power of great families to…Oh gods!” 

Jaime’s tongue on her licks away all possibility of coherent thought.  

He takes it slowly at first, long strokes and gentle sucking.  She lies back and enjoys it, enjoys _him_ , lets the little tingle of longing and expectation in her groin slowly build and spread, through her stomach and chest and limbs, until she’s burning from head to toe.  When he feels the waves begin, she raises her legs, wraps them around his head and holds him to her as she cries her release.

It takes a while for her to come down, and Jaime blows gently on her sensitive skin until she does.  Spent, she lets her legs fall to either side, completely exposing herself to him in the full light of day.  His head rests on her thigh. 

“Gods, I _love_ your cunt,” he says.  

He gives her two quick kisses on her sensitive folds, then climbs on top of her, pulls one leg around his waist and pushes himself inside her with a moan.  She feels stretched and full and, gods, it feels good.  She runs her hands down his back and over his buttocks. He is close, his face screwed in an ecstatic agony.

"It's okay," she whispers. "Come for me, Jaime."

It's only three quick, gratifying strokes before he does, with a roar.

 ...

 "So, let me get this straight”, he grins at her, sometime later.  “King Brandon - and I am never going to get use to that - told you we were married?"

The light in the room has faded to the pale pinky orange colour of impending sunset, and the air is heavy with their mingled scent.  The bedclothes are all over the floor. 

No one has come looking for them yet, but she's probably got Tyrion to thank for that. 

Jaime's head lies on her newly distended stomach, his palm on her mound, and the fingers of his left hand gently in her folds.  He's still teasing her slightly with his fingers.  It's a pleasant tingling feeling.  Neither of them have the energy left for anything more.

“By the laws of the Old Gods, yes.  Which, by the way, is also what I told my father.” 

He laughs.  “So, I don’t get a say in his?”

"I thought you were dead!" she says indignantly, “or at least gone!  And I had to protect the child.”

“Hey, hey,” he kisses her stomach. “I’m not upset about it.  I’m rather pleased actually. And I meant what I said up north - for me, the tree spirits or whatever are as good as any other.  But you're heir to Tarth, and we're meant to be of the faith of the Seven, so we should probably bloody well do it properly.”

She supposes that’s a marriage proposal.  It’ll do.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know…a big feast, dancing, something unexpected happening…”, she hits him.  “True, weddings don't tend to end well, do they?  Let’s not tempt fate with a celebration.  How about we go find a septa, make some vows, and get back here after dinner for a celebratory fuck?”

She kisses him.  It sounds like a plan the works well for both of them.

. 

**Epilogue**

**Jaime**

Jamie Lannister is dead.

Metaphorically, anyway.  

The physical being is in pretty good shape, for a one-handed, forty-eight year cripple.

"So, let me get this straight," Tyrion rubs his forehead. "When father died…”

“Murdered by you…” Jaime interrupts.

“Well, yes.  I thought you were over that?  Anyway, as I was saying, when father died, you were still a member of the kingsguard, and could not inherit.  And you had arguably been disinherited anyway, but we'll get to that later.  So, I was the heir, only not for very long, because I was at that stage suspected of treason and regicide and murder..."

"...which you were guilty of..." 

"That again?  Yes, guilty, but not convicted.  But in any case I was shortly thereafter attainted.   So, there being no direct line male heirs, the titles to Casterly Rock and the Westerlands and the Wardenship of the West went to Cersei, in right of Tommen.  When Tommen passed, you were no longer in the kingsguard, but there was still that pesky disinherited problem, and the lands had already passed into the female line anyway, so they were presumably held by Cersei in her own right, or perhaps also in her right as then Queen of the Seven Kingdoms - although subsequent events have made that a bit more dubious.  Anyway, no doubt, Cersei's heir, at law and will, would be you.  But as her confessed although pardoned executioner, my understanding is that you are dis-entitled from inheriting from her at all.  So in short, that makes me, as the only other surviving child of Tywin Lannister, the heir to Casterly Rock."  

Jaime shrugs.  "As confusing as that was, dear brother, I have no reason to doubt it.  I don't want the Rock. I won't say I've never wanted it. I've thought about it, especially these last couple of years.  But after what happened, with Cersei?  The last couple of years on the Council?  I don't want any further part in this great game you all seem to enjoy so much. I would be a dreadful, absent lord. And in any case, I have other places to be."  

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “I would think so.  But what of your children?"

Jaime shrugs. "They will need to find other things to do.  Unless you have none, in which case you may burden mine.  Casterly Rock is a millstone around our necks, Tyrion.  The mines are empty.  Most of what little was being eked out by father's good management was lost when the three of us, and Uncle Kevan, de-camped to Kings Landing and left the hired help in charge.  Daenerys' people took the rest.  Whoever becomes Lord Lannister will need to maintain the fortress and protect the Westerlands without a ready source of gold to pay for it. That sounds like the perfect job for you.  Enjoy it."

Tyrion leans back in his chair, his legs on the table.  He takes a long drink - good stuff, an enjoyable perk of his role as Hand.  

"Ah, what would father think?  Me, successor to both his position as hand and his castle and titles?"

"He'd be horrified."

"Good.” 

Tyrion takes another drink. "So, you and Brienne will be leaving for Tarth?”

Jaime nods.  “Lord Tarth will name me as co-heir, with Brienne, on the understanding that I adopt her title and styles."

Tyrion whistles.  “That’s a big call.”

”It's fine by me.  We talked about the children, but I think they will grow up, freer, without the Lannister name.  As you no doubt know, and possibly even enjoy, it's now a byword for many things, few of them good."

"Yes,"  Tyrion grins. "The forsaking of our family name is a delightfully ironic take of father's thousand year legacy.  I personally revel in it."

"I'm not ashamed of our family.  I will teach all the children our history, but they will not be burdened by it. “

Tyrion throws his brother a questioning look.  _“All_ your children? Not just both?”

Jaime beams proudly. “Brienne is pregnant. Again.”

Tyrion laughs, impressed. “A third?  You just can’t help yourselves.”

“Nope.”

Tyrion raises his cup of wine. "Well then, to my brother, the soon-to-be-former Jaime Lannister, who is dead and buried, and to Lord Tarth, who emerges in his place.”

They both take a drink, and Jaime adds, "that's certainly the idea."

“I'm sure Brienne will give your metaphorically deceased self a lovely write up in the white book before she retires."

"I bloody well hope she's already done it.  Although she's threatening to add all kinds of addendums...".

"Well then, my brother, it seems you're free of the Lannister curse of being scandalously rich yet disgracefully unhappy."

He frowns.  Is he, he wonders?  There is still a part of him that pines for Cersei, a part that him that thinks of what-ifs and maybes.  But he is okay with that, and he thinks Brienne is too.  Whatever dark thoughts, recriminations and regret still lurk in the back of his mind, he is, for once in his life, actually, genuinely, happy.  Quite an incredible thing, for a Lannister. 

"Yes. I think I am," he says to Tyrion, after a moment. "Free.  At last."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I never thought I would write a babyfic. Back when I first got into fandom, I would despise babyfics. But, then I had one and my whole perspective changed! And thing is, family is so important to Jaime, that I couldn't not give him his chance to be a real father. I'm less sure about show!Brienne's views on children, but I'm so sure she would be an awesome a mother that I had to give her that chance too.
> 
> Also, being a parent really does change you. Myrcella was only in the show briefly, but her brief interaction with Jaime was heartbreaking, and who could doubt that those few minutes had a profound effect on him, and his journey? I didn't explore it is great depth in this fic, but I included enough ripples that I hope it peaked through.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! I hope it helped you deal with the ending as much as it helped me. Now off to finish To Greet the Spring, with its snarky, season 3 to 5-style Jaime. I love me some angst, but it's good to be happy, too.


End file.
